


L’Amour et la Liberté

by iolana5050



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Hackers, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anxiety, Canonical Character Death, Enjolras Being An Idiot, Flashbacks, Government Conspiracy, Grantaire is a Mess, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inspirational Speeches, M/M, Name Changes, Reincarnation, or at least enjolras thinks they are, to be honest he's a bit of a mess too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2020-04-24 17:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19178029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iolana5050/pseuds/iolana5050
Summary: “I assure you, this is not a date. More of a… job opportunity.”In the silence that follows, R finds himself gaping at the stranger, not because of his attractiveness – well, not entirely – but because that glint in his eyes is not actually all that unfamiliar.“I had a dream about you.”---R is an unemployed software engineer turned hacker; E is the charming but mysterious activist who recruits him. They’re strangers to each other, but this is far from being the first time they’ve met.





	1. To The Last

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: there’s a scene in which a character assumes someone’s gender based on their appearance, although the assumption turns out to be correct. ALSO, none of the death/torture/rape (which only makes up a tiny part, I promise) is explicitly described, but they are implied/shown very briefly.
> 
> Disclaimer 2.0: this fic plays very fast and loose with historical and technical details (see: the “hacking” scenes). My knowledge of hacking comes fully from trashy dramas and my imagination.
> 
> Disclaimer the third: this was written out of order over the course of a year, so it’s all over the place. Sorry in advance to anyone who reads lol

“One would have said, to see the pensive thoughtfulness of his glance, that he had already, in some previous state of existence, traversed the revolutionary apocalypse.” – Victor Hugo, _Les Misérables_

 

_Paris, 1832_

Grantaire knows not what gives him the courage to finally approach their charming Leader in Red as he sits in a corner of the Musain, sifting through papers in the flickering candlelight, wearing an expression of utmost concentration. Perhaps it is the rare combination of the two men being the only ones left in the café that night, and Grantaire still riding a high from sitting through an entire Les Amis meeting without being insulted even once. That and, lest we forget, the alcohol still thrumming through his veins.

Whatever the case may be, he now approaches his scornful angel, wine bottle in hand, managing to cross the room almost without bumping into a single table. He comes to a stop before Enjolras and says nothing, admittedly not having thought through his actions past this point. In the meantime, however, he allows himself to appreciate the sight before him: that perfect porcelain skin, like that of a fair young maiden with just a hint of blush on his cheeks… the golden halo of his hair, unstyled, yet falling effortlessly to frame his face… those clever blue eyes – _keepers, perhaps, of untold passions_ – scanning so sharply over the page before them…

And before Grantaire knows what to do with himself, those fathomless eyes have fixed _him_ in their piercing gaze. Enjolras’ eyebrows rise incrementally in lieu of a verbalised question. Knowing not what possesses him to such madness, Grantaire ceremoniously places his bottle on the table before them and speaks: “Drink with me, dear Leader?”

Enjolras only frowns, like a king might scowl at a subject who displeases him. “Grantaire, you fool – you know I do not drink. If you wish to do so, may I suggest the fine establishment across the street? There is much work to be done tonight, and I would prefer that disturbances be avoided.” Only then does Grantaire finally take a look at the papers which have so enraptured his Leader – they appear to be various street maps of Paris, annotated heavily in Enjolras’ elegant script.

The man regards him with impatience now, and Grantaire is left again to wonder how it is he came to be in this situation – spending day after day in a drunken haze, gazing upon a man who sees him as little more than a nuisance, an unwelcome stain on a crisp white shirt. A man who is not a man at all – sometimes a righteous seraph, sometimes a divine hero allowing humanity a rare glimpse into the light of Olympus, but never, _never_ just a man. How foolish Grantaire must be, to so clumsily approach his Apollo tonight, in the feeble hopes that he might experience a flash of that heavenly fire for himself. But the night seems full of surprises, for Grantaire finds himself pulling out a chair and taking a seat opposite his beloved Leader.

Enjolras appears taken aback, but does not object. After a few moments, he returns to his planning and Grantaire watches, taking a slow swig of his wine. Eventually he speaks: “Do you truly believe that your Revolution will succeed?” Grantaire’s tone is not condescending this time, merely curious.

Enjolras sighs, allowing the pages in his hands to fall flat on the table. “I believe that every man has a basic sense of right and wrong, a sense of justice rooted deep inside him; I am willing to bear the costs of fighting for that justice. I believe that when the people see our banners and hear our shouts from the barricades, they will realise that the moment has arrived to take back their country, to take it back for the people. The blood of the martyrs will water the meadows of a new Republic. I _believe_ that when the time comes, the people will rise.” He speaks with such conviction, eyes blazing with such an intensity, that Grantaire feels wholly transported into the image he paints, and whilst he can admit to himself its beauty, all the while an immovable wrench sits in his chest.

“Oh Apollo,” he says, “you hail from the province of the Gods, so I forgive your innocence, but you rest too much faith on the people.” Grantaire’s rebuttal holds Enjolras’ attention, as he knew it would, but for once that is not the sole aim of his words. “You are naïve to think they will heed your call. These people have spent their lives trawling the gutter, never an opportunity to think of more than the next meal, stomped upon by any herald of authority – I know, for I am a witness, but I fear you do not understand. They will not rise.”

A flash of holy anger rises in Enjolras now. “If that is truly what you think, then you must believe our enterprise to be doomed. _Why_ , then, do you continue to attend every meeting, continue to argue your point at every turn? Why not return to your proverbial gutter and save yourself the effort?”

Though the words sting, Grantaire does not flinch, for which he surprises himself yet again. His voice remains unexpectedly steady as he replies: “You are right, dear Leader – I do not see the reestablishment of the Republic as you do. As for why I remain… Well, you already know the answer to that, as I believe I have a rather troubling tendency to remind you.” When Enjolras only looks on in confusion, Grantaire sighs and gives clarification: “ _You_ , Apollo. I stay for _you_.”

Enjolras drops his gaze to his folded hands now; if Grantaire did not know better, he would say the man was embarrassed. “Listen to me, Grantaire,” he says, with none of the usual disapproval to be found when he speaks that name, “I am no Apollo, I am no Achilles; I am but a man as any other. As are you. I would not wish for you to champion a cause in which you have no faith merely for my benefit, and I would not wish for you to perish doing so. Do you understand me, my friend? I will _not_ permit you to die for me.” These are sentiments Enjolras would never have expressed in the presence of Les Amis; these are words reserved for Grantaire alone, and he cannot deny that he feels a flutter in his chest at the thought.

 _You are willing to die for France, but I cannot die for you? Do you not realise that you are a worthier cause than our Patria will ever be?_ He almost speaks his thoughts aloud, though it hardly matters whether he does – their honourable Leader in Red cannot be dissuaded, of that he is certain. Enjolras’ idealistic convictions are admirable, but they are something Grantaire can never truly comprehend – perhaps such revelations are reserved for those with moral integrity, a circle from which Grantaire is ever barred. His only conviction is, and shall forever remain, to follow his Apollo to the last.

In the absence of a reply, Enjolras speaks again, almost musing to himself more than he demands an answer: “You are an eternal mystery to me, Grantaire, I will never understand you. How did you come to be this way, I wonder?”

Grantaire chuckles darkly at the question he asks himself every day. “It is all too easy to become cynical in the face of reality; I am perhaps weak in that regard, as I am in many others. It takes much more courage to believe in something better.” He pauses, giving his next sentence a moment of consideration before he speaks, fixing his gaze upon those blue eyes which will remain ever inscrutable: “I hope you are right, for _your_ sake above all, but I’m sorry- I cannot say with sincerity that I find myself able to truly believe it.”

Grantaire wishes so desperately to be mistaken, but when he awakes that fateful morning with the corpses of his friends scattered at his feet, he knows he is not. The people did not rise. Of course not. It is the silence that gets to him more than anything, the quiet of the tomb doing nothing to dull the ache of his head.

And that is when he hears it: “Shoot me.”

Grantaire’s tired eyes finally focus on the scene before him – his beloved Apollo backed into a corner by a dozen National Guardsmen, rifles having already taken aim. But even now he is calm, rosy, his unruffled attire stained with blood that is not his own – a radiant angel who merely smiles in the face of death, righteous eyes glinting with an unspoken taunt: “Don’t you realise? You cannot harm me.”

Just as they did those many nights earlier, Grantaire’s feet carry him across the room, seemingly without need of conscious thought. He gives brief consideration to the notion of escape, but realises quickly that it was never an option.

“Vive la république! I am one of them,” he announces, stepping into the deadly circle. “Vive la république – finish us both.”

The Republic was Enjolras’ dream, never his own – a dream that now draws its final gasping breaths in the face of the King’s firing squad. But Grantaire believes in something of infinitely greater importance: he believes in Enjolras, who is not a god, not an angel – perhaps only a mere mortal after all. But Grantaire recognises that this is his only chance, his single calling to be a part of something greater and better than himself. Besides, what would there possibly be left to live for were Enjolras to be gone? Would that not be a godless existence infinitely worse than death? So, in these few borrowed moments before execution, he looks only to Enjolras, paying no mind to the barrels of a dozen guns which lie in wait, ready to fire.

“Do you permit it?”

Enjolras smiles, joining Grantaire’s hand with his own. That is all he needs.

 

*        *        *

R awakes with a start, gunshots still ringing in his head. He brings a hand to his chest to verify the lack of bullet wounds. _Just a dream_ , he sighs, _just a really vivid dream…_ How strange – maybe he should not have had all that extra ice cream before bed.

He drags himself out of bed mechanically, hardly bothering to open his sticky eyes, instead navigating the bedroom by touch alone. He has already halfway buttoned his shirt, toothbrush hanging clumsily out of his mouth and dripping toothpaste onto the floor, before he remembers. Kicking himself mentally, R undoes the few buttons he had managed to complete and throws the shirt back in the closet.

 _What an idiot_ , he thinks to himself as he rinses out his mouth, _you haven’t had a job for weeks, dumbass._ But now that he has been through that entire ordeal, the last of his sleepiness seems to have dissipated. _Might as well stay up_.

R shuffles his way to the kitchen, briefly considering making toast before deciding he does not have the patience to wait for the toaster and resolving to have cereal instead. As he returns the milk to the fridge, he catches sight of the dozen or so beer bottles sitting in the door. He takes a glance at the microwave clock: 12:03. _It’s no longer morning – that’s socially acceptable, right?_ He tries not to think too much about it as he grabs a bottle and his bowl, and settles himself down on the sofa.

 _After breakfast, I’ll look at some job listings,_ he tells himself, _today is the day_. But he gets terribly engrossed in the old movie playing on the Hallmark channel, and then there is a fascinating documentary on cheese-making, and _then_ they are showing reruns of his favourite childhood cartoon – before he knows it, he is four hours older and three bottles drunker. _Shit,_ he curses himself, _how do I always end up here_?

Before he can beat himself up too much, however, his phone chimes loudly with a text. It is from Han: ‘bringing someone over in 10 – make yourself decent pls… if that’s even possible for you ;P’. _Pfft, I’m always decent_ , R thinks in a huff, looking down at his boxers-clad, crumb-covered body. _Okay, maybe Han has a point._

R resolves to at least put on some clothes, even if it is just a t-shirt and some joggers, and even goes to the effort of combing his curls into something that looks slightly less like a bird’s nest and more like human hair. _The things I do for you, Han_ , he thinks grudgingly. R wonders who they are bringing over – at this time of day it is less likely to be a date and more likely one of his roommate’s hipster poetry club friends. At least R will not be expected to contribute anything to the conversation, in that case.

The apartment’s front door opens mere seconds after R has finally settled himself back on the sofa, immersing himself in the plot of an episode that he has now missed the first half of.

“Hi, R,” Han calls out cheerfully as they enter the dingy flat, keys jingling as they land tossed in the ‘keys and miscellaneous crap’ bowl that they insist on keeping by the entrance. R does not look up from the screen, but offers a ‘hey’ and a friendly wave in the right general vicinity.

R focuses on his TV show as two sets of footsteps make their way across the room. Rather than retreat into Han’s room as he expected, however, they seem to stick around in the kitchen. He chances a glance over and catches Han unloading takeaway boxes from their bag; their guest, who is wearing a plain black hoodie with the hood pulled up, has their back to R. _Okay, whatever,_ he thinks, and returns his attention to his beloved rectangle of procrastination.

As the episode continues, he hears voices from the kitchen, but largely tunes them out. “You have a lovely apartment,” the guest is saying. They have a voice that is neither shrill nor deep, but strangely melodious, and smooth like peanut butter. _Wow – maybe I’m drunker than I thought._

After a while, however, the conversation falls quiet, though R is certain he did not hear the two people leave the room. He strains his ears and manages to make out the vague outlines of a whispered discussion. _How curious_.

“Are you sure this is the man you told me about?” the stranger appears to be saying, “he seems a bit …”

There is a pause in which R assumes Han has responded, and the guest soon replies with “are you sure he can be trusted?” They are talking about _him_. They must be. R feels a twinge of annoyance.

“Hey guys,” he calls out, loud enough to stop the whispering dead in its tracks, “you _do_ know I can hear you, right?” R finally turns his head to look at the conspirators directly. “Han – this better not be another one of your attempts to set me up with one of your poet friends. I told you I don’t like surprise dates.”

Han at least has the decency to appear absolutely mortified at R’s words – _good_ – but the guest still has their back turned, no indication of any sort about their reaction. After a few seconds, Han breaks eye contact with R, instead glancing over at their friend. Some kind of wordless communication seems to pass between them, with plenty of impassioned eyebrow movements on Han’s part, and after a few moments Han gives a slow nod.

R is about to throw his hands up in frustration and demand someone offer an explanation, when the mysterious guest abruptly turns to face him. Slowly, with as much grandeur as a superhero dropping their mask, the hood is lowered, and R finds himself face to face with a man whom he can describe only as ‘indescribable’, a man of angelic beauty whose eyes glint with deadly conviction. “I assure you, this is not a date,” he speaks, expression inscrutable, “more of a… job opportunity.”

In the silence that follows, R finds himself gaping at the stranger, not because of his attractiveness – well, not _entirely_ – but because that glint in his eyes is not actually all that unfamiliar.

“I had a dream about you.” The absurd words fall from his mouth before he can think any better of them. He is about to apologise, and blame the outpouring of nonsense on the empty beer bottles sitting on the coffee table, but the words die in his throat at the sight of the beautiful stranger’s reaction. It is not confused, as would be reasonable to expect, not even creeped out or mildly disgusted. Instead, he looks rather like someone whose mother has just walked in on them having an intimate moment with a graphic magazine – this is to say, he looks absolutely petrified.

“Um, I mean… I dreamed about someone who kinda looks like you,” R corrects himself a minute too late, and behind their guest, he sees Han silently facepalming and holding back a laugh. He then quickly tacks on: “It wasn’t _that_ kind of dream…” Han now looks physically pained by R’s second-hand embarrassment, but at least the stranger’s expression has regained some semblance of normalcy, carrying only a slight furrow in his brow.

“What you get up to in your night-time fantasies is none of my concern,” the man swerves smoothly away from the topic, “I’m here because I’m looking for someone to do a particular job – an _operation_ , if you will. Something I’ve been planning for a while now that requires a level of… discretion. I mentioned needing a person of certain… _skills_ , and your friend here recommended you. Very enthusiastically, might I add.”

R understands the words coming from the stranger’s mouth, but they do nothing to clarify the situation in any way. “Look, man,” he says, “you’re gonna have to be more specific. ‘Cause right now it just sounds like you want me to film a sextape with you or something.” The man’s eyes widen at that and he goes visibly whiter despite his already pale skin. _Interesting… definitely not a sextape, then. Although let’s be real – if he asked, I’d probably say yes._

Han, thankfully, chooses at that moment to step in. They reach forward to place a hand on the man’s shoulder in reassurance. “It’s okay, E – just tell him. I told you, you can trust him.”

“Can everyone stop being so cryptic for a second and just explain what the _fuck_ is going on?!” R almost yells. His head is starting to hurt.

“Sorry, R.” Han offers an apologetic smile while the man – _E_ – remains stony-faced. “So… remember a few weeks ago, when there was that security breach at the D.P.S.I. that caused a big ruffle?”

R thinks back to the time Han is speaking of with a cringe. “Oh, you mean the one that launched a big internal investigation that ended up getting me fired for ‘idleness and inappropriate behaviour’? How could I forget…”

“That was me,” E chimes in before R gets the chance to start a rant. His statement is so glib, his tone so calm, that R almost does not realise what it means for a second. “Well, rather it was _we_ ,” he continues after the briefest pause, gesturing vaguely in evocation of his supposed co-conspirators. “Over the past few months, I’ve discovered some… discrepancies in the claims and numbers published by the D.P.S.I. in their compulsory public reports. Although it’s foolish to speculate too far at this juncture, I believe them to be hiding something… _dangerous_ , potentially. And I also believe that it’s the right of the people to know what their government is up to – hence, where you come in. Han claims that you’re a software engineer of remarkable skill, _and_ that you have employment history with the D.P.S.I.. So, would you be interested?” E extends the offer with a curt smile, though his eyes still blaze with a rather disconcerting intensity.

“Shit…” comes R’s eloquent response, “you’re hackers.”

“Yes…” E confirms with an amused quirk to his lips, “how observant of you to realise.”

“Right. So. Uh – _E_ , is it? – what’s up with this whole ‘Mr Anonymous’ look, then?” R waggles his finger at the all-black ensemble in front of him, as if anyone needed the clarification. _Jesus, this guy must think I’m either a huge dick or a complete idiot, at this point._ The truth is, the combination of E’s intense gaze and his painfully good looks is rather impairing R’s ability to think straight. The beer might also have something to do with it.

For all of R’s ridiculousness, E only tilts his head in mild curiosity, as someone might regard an odd specimen in a history museum, and proceeds to answer the question sincerely: “The outfit is a bit on the nose, I admit, but I’d rather remain unseen and unnoticed as far as possible. Cameras are always watching, after all, and based on my history, I’m sure there are multiple organisations out there who would rather like to know my whereabouts.” R frowns at that, and E sighs. “Look, I understand if you’re not comfortable doing this – not everyone’s willing to go to the same lengths as I am, and that’s completely fair. But if that is the case, I only ask you this: please don’t tell anyone about this – about me, the mission, _anything_.”

When R fails to respond immediately, E quickly turns to Han with a worried crease in his forehead. “Okay, first of all,” R speaks to get his attention back, “you _can_ trust me. I know Han told you that, and they’re right. Second of all, I get that what you’re trying to do here is all… morally righteous, or whatever, but I dunno… I’m not usually one to say this – Han can vouch – but this seems kinda risky. Hacking a government agency? They _just_ fired me for pretty much nothing, and maybe it’s just me, but I don’t particularly wanna go to jail, you know?”

E purses his lips, lowering his gaze solemnly to the creaky floorboards and not saying a word. Although everything R expressed is perfectly reasonable, he feels an unsolicited pang of guilt at being the cause of this beautiful stranger’s disappointment. So, he adds in a decidedly gentler tone: “Why are you doing this, anyway?”

E does not look up as he answers, thankfully sparing R the palpitations elicited by his intent stare. “Our government preaches freedom and justice,” he says, “that’s what they teach us from the moment we’re able to speak. But it’s a lie. They have no integrity. Our economy is on the brink of collapse, our people on the brink of famine and epidemic, our _planet_ on the brink of catastrophe. You think that’s an eventuality? That it couldn’t be avoided? No. Those we have elected to lead us are _lying_ to us, so corrupted they are by promises of wealth from greedy corporations that will happily feed on our corpses until there’s nothing left but dust. The people deserve the truth.”

E has to take a moment to breathe, to calm himself. R cannot see his face from this angle and almost wonders if he is crying, but when E suddenly looks up, his eyes hold nothing but divine rage. “It’s your choice whether to join me or not – I would never force you – but this is a chance to be a part of something _greater_ and _better_ than yourself.”

 _Something greater and better than myself._ R almost shudders again at the thought of those gunshots, the bodies… But they are all too quickly replaced with the image of a smiling angel, the touch of a warm hand. _“I believe the people will rise…”_

“Alright,” R says before he can regret it, “I’ll do it.”


	2. Leave Good Enough Alone

E had not stayed much longer that afternoon; there had been a few more words of thanks and affirmation, then he had handed R a handwritten note – “you never know who’s listening” – and told him to meet him at that address the following morning. Apparently, any form of distance communication is ‘unsafe’ and ‘compromised’, although R is starting to seriously question the man’s paranoid claims. “Remember,” E had added as he pulled his hood up, ready to depart, “keep your face hidden.”

Even with all his misgivings, the next day at 10 a.m., R finds himself on the subway in a non-descript grey hoodie, and with a pair of sunglasses on despite the day being heavily overcast. He is sure he gets _more_ stares dressed like this than he would otherwise, and the whole thing just feels utterly ridiculous, but who is he to question E’s judgment?

The walk to E’s place takes him into an area of the city he has never visited before, and it looks entirely unlike what he had imagined. E is a criminal, it is true, but he was so polite, so poised, and spoke in such a strange antiquated cadence, that R subconsciously assumed him to be wealthy. This place is decidedly… not. R was never more than working class growing up, but even _his_ mother would have told him to stay away from an area like this. If he had had anything of value, he would be worried about getting mugged right now, but luckily, he does not. _And, to be honest, I’m probably the most dodgy-looking guy on the street with what I’m wearing right now._

He finally makes it to the address he was given – a dingy concrete apartment building with a rusting iron gate at its entrance. R double checks E’s note before buzzing in the right flat number. The name card beside the button is blank. The intercom rings for a few seconds before someone picks up, but whoever is on the other end does not speak.

R clears his throat. “Um, it’s me. For the, uh… thing?” What possesses him to continually utter such nonsense is honestly beyond him, but there is only the briefest pause before the gate buzzes to unlock. As R opens it, he holds the door open for an elderly woman with a bag of groceries behind him; she does not thank him, only eyes him strangely. _To be fair, so would I_.

The building has no lift, so R heads for the stairs. Two flights up, he checks the note yet again, although it is practically crumpled beyond recognition by now. He gets the vague notion that this could be some sort of trap, that some kidnapping and human trafficking scenario awaits him at his destination. _No – Han wouldn’t sell me out._ _But then again, they were always too trusting._ Either way, R has come too far to turn back now, so before he can have another thought, he strides across the landing to the door marked ‘302’ and knocks.

Nothing stirs for a few moments, but then come unmistakable sounds of human movement from within the apartment. R rocks nervously on his feet as he waits. The old woman has reached the landing now, and she seems to live on this floor as well, as she sets her bags down before door ‘303’. She regards him curiously, eyebrows pulled together in suspicion; R can only attempt a friendly smile, though he is sure it utterly fails to come across as such. Thankfully, the door finally opens then, revealing E in all his angelic glory. There is no black hoodie today; he is dressed instead in sweatpants and a red t-shirt, like he just got out of bed, and his long blond hair is fastened in a messy bun with a claw clip, which still manages to look elegant somehow. R can only gape.

“Hey, thank you for coming,” E smiles pleasantly despite R’s lack of greeting, “it’s nice to see you again.” He catches sight of his neighbour over R’s shoulder, and offers a polite “good morning, Mrs DuBois.” When R still fails to do anything except grow increasingly awkward where he stands, E reaches a hand around his back to guide him into the apartment – “come in, there’s no need to feel nervous…” – and quickly closes the door behind him.

Inside, R finally lowers his hood and takes off those ridiculous sunglasses. The interior of apartment 302 is just as shabby and uninspired as the rest of the building; there are no knickknacks or pictures, even, for R to spy on. “Uh… nice place…” R comments as he looks around the tiny kitchen-living room.

In response, E only stands with his hand to his chin, looking around as though appraising it for the first time. “It’s not the finest accommodation, I admit,” he muses, “but it’s non-descript and the landlord takes cash. He also hardly glanced at the ID I showed him… not that it was real, of course. But it’s really not so bad, and the neighbours are quiet.” He appears lost in thought for a few seconds, before snapping back into the moment. “Would you like some tea or coffee? I’ve got quite a few options – feel free to sit whilst I get it ready.”

The sudden hospitality is oddly unnerving coming from this paranoid hacker fugitive, but R mumbles a “I’ll have coffee, thanks – black” and settles himself on one end of the sofa, which turns out to be rather creaky and uneven. He watches curiously as his host moves about the kitchenette, boiling water and spooning coffee powder into a cup. He does it all so meticulously, the steady movements of his hands oddly refined. _Definitely rich,_ R thinks to himself, _he might not be anymore, but this man was rich once._

“So,” R says to break the silence, and also because he has a strange impulse to make E look at him again, “I’m pretty sure Mrs DuBois thinks you’re some kind of prostitute now – strange man coming to your apartment all nervous and dressed like he has something to hide… I would apologise, but you really brought it on yourself more than anything.” R never ceases to amaze himself with the sheer power of his bullshit. “Come to think of it, I don’t even know your real name. I bet it doesn’t even start with E.”

That gets E’s attention. He glances over, just as R hoped he would, from where he is currently pouring boiling water into a mug. He appears to be frozen in surprise for a second, but quickly regains his composure before a single drop can spill. “Well _your_ name isn’t really R, is it?” He finishes pouring and picks up a teaspoon to stir the steaming drink. “I would ask for your name, but that’s hardly fair, is it? And besides, it might be fun to maintain a bit of… mysterious anonymity.” E’s face is impassive except for the slightest quirk of his lips, as he picks up R’s coffee together with another cup and saunters over. Instead of sitting down on the sofa beside R, E hands him his mug before electing to seat himself in the single armchair opposite. “I suppose that _is_ all rather fitting with my newfound reputation as a prostitute,” he ponders, taking a sip of his own tea, “perhaps I should consider a career change.”

E is so infuriatingly pokerfaced, his tone of voice so measured, that R cannot tell if the man is actually flirting with him, or if he just wishes he was. _He could be casually mocking me in the most sarcastic way possible, and I wouldn’t know. In fact, he probably is._

E clears his throat then, pulling R out of his reflections. “Perhaps we should discuss the _actual_ job,” he says, effectively ending whatever banter they might have had going. The intent stare is back now, and R looks away to check on his coffee. _Still too hot_ … E continues without pause: “I apologise for being so cryptic yesterday, but I didn’t want to divulge too much, seeing as you hadn’t yet agreed to work with me. Let me begin by giving you some background about how I became interested in the D.P.S.I.…”

_Finally, some answers_. R sits up a little straighter. “A while back, I was part of a certain environmental activist group – I’m no longer able to work with them, unfortunately – and as part of one of our sustainability campaigns, I thought it prudent to do some research on the D.P.S.I.. I thought we might use some of their statistics in our speeches and flyers, but the more I looked into their reports, the more… discrepancies seemed to arise. Figures not adding up… words in conflict with the numbers… all sorts, really.”

Suddenly, E’s eyes widen, and he stalls his story partway. “How rude of me,” he chastises himself, swiftly rising from his seat and heading back towards the kitchen, “I didn’t even offer you anything to eat.” R remains motionless with his mug lifted halfway to his mouth, stunned by the sudden departure from the anecdote that he was actually beginning to get invested in. He watches curiously as E retrieves something from a cupboard, and wonders if all this ‘good host’ stuff was something he was taught in his youth in a posh family. _Or maybe he just doesn’t have guests around very often_.

E soon returns with a newly opened tin of assorted cookies, which are gracefully placed on the coffee table between them, and sits back down. “Where was I? Oh yes – as I was saying, I found a number of things that didn’t add up. Of course, not being an expert on accounting, or sustainability for that matter, my first thought was that there was simply some gap in my own understanding. So I brought my concerns to an online forum, asking for advice. Admittedly, my post didn’t get much attention, but a few days after I wrote it, I received a private message. Completely anonymous, of course.”

Infuriatingly, E chooses that exact moment in his tale to pick up a cookie. He eats it slowly, dipping it into his tea before taking a bite, as R waits in anticipation and utter disbelief. Even eating a snack, E is careful, deliberate. Outside, the sun seems to have finally broken through the clouds, and he gazes in the direction of the tiny barred window as though pondering his next words, the planes of his face catching the light in a way that must surely be humanly impossible.

Finally, he turns back to face R, the sun in his eyes making them appear to almost glow. It is strangely unnerving. E continues as though he had never stopped: “I don’t remember it entirely, but the message said something along the lines of ‘the D.P.S.I. is not to be trusted… I’ve seen it from the inside… I’ve had a change of conscience, and now they’re coming for me… don’t get involved if you know what’s good for you…’ At least, that was the general gist.” The words are jarring, paired with the calm nonchalance of his voice.

“So, naturally I went in and did more research. I found that a number of companies receiving aid from the D.P.S.I. are distantly owned by board members or other high-ranking government officials. And _those_ companies… let’s just say that their contributions to our country’s sustainability are less than credible.” He pauses for a moment, then suddenly perks up. “Oh, I almost forgot – would you like some grapes or berries of some sort? I’ll get them.” He rises yet again, before R even has the chance to respond.

R contemplates as he watches his host retrieve fruits from the fridge and wash them: E is not particularly tall, but he _stands_ like he is. That demeanour of his – and his attractiveness, if we are being honest – had made him seem rather intimidating the other day. But the image of the blood-soaked revolutionary is starting to fade now, and R is quickly realising that E is actually quite adorably eccentric. He just also happens to be extremely attractive. Definitely also that.

E eventually returns to set a bowl of fruit on the coffee table. Despite not having eaten a single fruit in probably the last three years, R takes a strawberry, not wanting E to have wasted his efforts. He waits for the rest of the story, but it turns out there is none. “So, that’s the background of our operation,” E says, crossing his legs as he sits back down, “which brings us to… you.” He gives a faint smile, gesturing to the man in front of him.

R is at a loss for words. He never used to be, but it seems to be happening all too often these past two days. When he does speak, it is to say: “Wow, you really don’t know how to stay out of dangerous business, do you?”

E’s smile widens, finally becoming a fully-fledged expression on his face. “No, I suppose I never have. My parents can vouch for that.”

“Ah-ha!” R exclaims, and E tilts his head in confusion. “So you have parents, then. That might be the only personal thing I know about you – you’re not a lab clone.” E laughs – genuinely laughs – and if R thought he was beautiful before, he has now reached a whole new level of divine. He can’t help but feel a little proud – after all, E does not seem like the type of person who laughs very often. “Wait,” R suddenly remembers, “you said ‘we’ yesterday – where are these co-conspirators of yours, then?”

“Ah, right,” E answers, the last of the humour leaving him, “well, they’re rather like yourself. I… recruited them each for specific tasks – things I couldn’t do myself. They’ve never met one another. Actually…” and E actually looks a bit sheepish as he continues, “the whole security breach fiasco was _my_ fault. I’m not really that much of a hacker – I only dabble – and I… miscalculated. I shouldn’t have tried to do it myself, but I was too eager to get the operation going, that I got a bit carried away.”

Seeing R’s questioning eyes, he adds, “I won’t tell you what I did, to spare you the disappointment, but rest assured it was… unwise. Stupid, really.” R is desperately curious but does not press the issue. Perhaps out of some need to prove himself, E continues: “my own area of expertise was always much more in the realm of counterfeiting and identity fraud” – _well that’s not concerning at all_ – “and in the past, I’ve always been more of an organiser: research, plans, writing speeches – that kind of thing. In fact, I met your friend Han whilst I was playing precisely such a role in the environmental group I mentioned earlier. They were rather unlike the majority of my friends at the time, but I could tell they were trustworthy, loyal. I appreciated that. They’re one of the few people I still keep in contact with from that group; I met them the other day and mentioned my plans and, well, they recommended _you_ for the job.”

R makes a mental note to bug Han about this activist thing at the next possible opportunity – maybe he can dig up some info about E’s past. _Or would that be intrusive_? He quickly pushes those thoughts aside and asks: “Okay, so what exactly do you want me to do, then? I assume I’m gonna be hacking some government secrets?”

“Yes,” E confirms, fixing R in his mesmerising gaze, newly intensified by the mention of his plans. He has lowered his voice conspiratorially, and R subconsciously leans forward in captivation to catch every word of what is to come. “But I must ask,” he speaks quietly, “how would you feel about a little breaking and entering?”

_CRUNCH._

“Fuck!” R exclaims. The rickety sofa had chosen that exact moment to give way under his weight, leaving him awkwardly sitting on the floor on top of a collapsed cushion. “Shit! My ass… That hurt!”

E’s face is a mask of shock and concern. “Oh, my goodness – are you alright?”

“Yeah…” R mumbles as he extricates himself from the mess, wincing in pain from falling on his backside, “but this definitely isn’t doing anything to convince your neighbours that you’re not a prostitute.” R grins, and E only sighs in relief and shakes his head, amused. _Maybe he doesn’t hate me, after all._

 

*      *      *

_Soviet Moscow, 1953_

“I will be the first to say it, then: they are innocent,” Alexei declares, stabbing his fork into his dinner with slightly more force than is probably warranted.

Ruslan lets out a long-suffering sigh. “My dear friend, they are not the only ones.” It is an unspoken truth, yet universally understood – an untold number of the ‘spies’ and ‘traitors’ and ‘undesirables’ toiling their lives away in the Gulags had done none of which they were accused. But the other man has not shifted from resolutely glaring into his bowl.

“Kalganov and Krasotkin are good men – you know them perhaps better than I. Spying for the British? That’s a blatant lie. They have spent years of their lives labouring for the good of our government, and this is what they get?”

“Alesha…” Ruslan reaches a hand to Alexei’s arm to calm him before he can raise his voice enough to be overheard by nosy neighbours. “Do not meddle with matters of the law. You know better than most-”

“Yes, thank you, Ruslan,” he bites back, not leaving his friend the time to finish speaking, “I do not need to be reminded that my parents paid the price for their convictions. And I do not intend to repeat their mistakes.”

“Their _mistake_ was not leaving good enough alone.” In the heavy silence that follows that statement, Ruslan almost believes that Alexei will rise to strike him, although of course he does not.

Alexei lets out a short laugh that almost sounds more like a cough. “Are you afraid? Is that it? You know I do not force you to agree with me, much less imitate my actions.” Ruslan’s silence all but confirms it in Alexei’s mind, and he continues with a slight quirk to his lips: “Ruslan Garriovich… Ruslan the Lion… Was it not _you_ , also, who smuggled in contraband to school? Who stole from government convoys? The centre of so many tales that I would not believe were I not a first-hand witness?”

Ruslan snorts humourlessly. “Don’t get it confused, _Alexei Eduardovich_. I am not afraid for myself – though you should know by now that I would willingly follow you anywhere – I’m afraid for _you_. You have such a tendency to be righteous, and you don’t realise how dangerous that is for you.”

Alexei’s expression softens, and he slides a hand across the table to rest over that of his friend. “You needn’t worry for me, Ruslan. I will go about this in a perfectly respectable manner – to arrest me would only expose their own fraud.”

_Expose? As though everyone does not already know?_ Ruslan thinks to himself, but he realises that arguing this point with Alexei will get them nowhere. “They will investigate you,” he opts to say instead, “are you certain they will have nothing to find?” His gaze slips down to where their hands still lie, joined, on top of the dinner table.

“My _dearest_ friend,” Alexei says, his words holding more warmth than his voice, “what kind of man would I be if I knew of this injustice, and yet chose to do nothing?” Ruslan frowns, and he swiftly adds on: “That is not to say I would regard _you_ any less highly if you don’t join me.”

But he joins Alexei, of course – there was never any question. He joins him as he writes insistent letters, joins him as he makes visits to government officials, and finally joins him in the Gulag when things take a turn for the worst.

“Was it worth it?” he asks bitterly, as they slug through the mud and sleet from rollcall to their labour site.

Where other men have long since bowed their heads, lowering their gazes to the peeling boots on their feet, Alexei fixes his eyes straight ahead, head held high. _Too proud for his own good_ , Ruslan thinks to himself. “I do not regret my actions. The only thing a man has in the end is his conviction. My only compunction is that you should be here with me.”

“You’d rather I left?” Ruslan raises an eyebrow almost playfully, and Alexei almost smiles.

They trudge along a few meters more in the cold and wet before Ruslan speaks again. “You never did learn how to leave well enough alone… Kalganov and Krasotkin’s troubles were not your business – you hardly knew them. To think – we could be enjoying a nice warm breakfast right now, or be in bed even!” But his words hold more resentment than his voice.

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, my friend.” Alexei’s tone is gentle and steady as always. “All injustice is my business, whether it is perpetrated against myself or not. This time I thought I could set it right – evidently, I was mistaken, but I cannot regret that I tried…”

Alexei finally turns to look Ruslan in the eye, untold passion swimming in the blue of his irises. “I would do it again. Without question.” Ruslan knows this; he does not need Alexei to tell him. _The saddest part is_ , he realises, _so would I_.


	3. For Freedom Set Us Free

_Somewhere on the Atlantic, 1689_

His first meeting with Ed is a complete accident. He is stumbling down the ship’s main passageway one evening, after admittedly a few too many glasses of rum with the rest of the crew, when he makes the mistake of entering a cabin which is decidedly not his own. Seamen like himself are not provided the luxury of a private cabin with a carved name plaque hanging proudly from the door. That should have been his first clue. Following that logic, the second clue, then, is the midshipman – holding a rank comfortably above his own lowly position – he finds inside the cabin in a state of partial undress. However, Rogers’ inebriated mind is not currently in a condition to recognise such signs.

“Wha-” the sailor slurs, “what’re you doing in our quarters?” It is only after a considerable moment of stunned silence, a period in which he finally has the good sense to take in his surroundings, that he realises his grave mistake.

Why, then, has the officer-to-be not reprimanded him? Not told him to leave at once? Not spoken a single word? Rogers’ gaze slips down from the man’s widened eyes, down to- _oh_. Before Rogers can react, however, the occupant of the cabin has already moved to hastily block the door, gripping a dirty dinner knife as threateningly as he – or should he say _she_? – can accomplish.

“Sorry,” is all Rogers manages to say despite the whirlwind of thoughts in his head, “I thought this was my cabin.”

The ice in his opponent’s eyes thaws marginally to give way to disbelief. “You’re Rogers,” he – _she?_ – states, voice retaining its smooth authoritative tone despite the situation, “you work on the sails.”

“Yes, sir – eh, I mean, ma’am?” This is quickly getting to be too much for his poor alcohol-addled brain to handle.

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps, her blue eyes burning hot for an instant. “Sorry, I never much cared for titles. I just… I implore you, _please_ , tell no one of what you have seen here tonight.”

“What if I refuse?”

She grips the knife a little tighter, bringing it up to level with his neck.

“Good God – there’s no need of that, alright!” Rogers is quick to amend, “that was purely a hypothetical. Don’t worry – I wouldn’t dream of telling a soul. We all have secrets we’d rather others didn’t know… But I must say, you’re lucky it is I in your cabin tonight and not someone less courteous – that knife of yours is as blunt as a stick.” The woman’s gaze flashes down to the makeshift weapon in her hand, and her expression turns sheepish. Rogers continues: “Your secret is safe. You have my word, Edwards.”

She still looks profoundly unsettled. “Actually, my name is-”

“No,” Rogers cuts her off, “you don’t have to tell me. Fewer secrets for me to keep that way, eh?” The woman nods, the hint of a smile creeping onto her guarded visage.

After that night, Ed and Rogers grow closer, as two people keeping a deadly secret often do. Rogers catches sight of her across the deck whilst he drinks himself merry with his fellow crewmen. He used to look before too, sometimes – the midshipman was always present, but ever outside the immediate circle of folly, the smooth planes of his pensive face softly lit by the nearest lamp like something from an oil painting. During work hours he was confident, commanding, but he never joined in any of the evening festivities.

Now Rogers watches her still, studying the faint blush on her cheeks, the soft parting of her lips, the gentle flow of her golden hair. _You can tell, if you know what you’re looking for_ , he thinks to himself. What he is not accustomed to, however, is that she should turn to meet his gaze.

He knows not what compels him to do so, but he soon finds himself rising from his less-than-comfortable spot on the hard timber deck and sauntering over to his new acquaintance.

“Join us for a drink?” he proposes, gesturing vaguely in the direction from which he came. “We’re respectable fellows, you know. Well… semi-respectable. But rest assured, I will look out for you.” He lowers his voice at the end, lest they be overheard.

He is answered by a wry smile. “I do not doubt that, Mr Rogers, but I’m content as I am.”

Over the weeks, Rogers begins to slowly unravel the mystery of the inimitable Miss Edwards – if that is even her true name. “It has always baffled me that one’s physical constitution should dictate so much of one’s life,” she muses as Rogers labours at untangling a length of rope, “‘For freedom Christ has set us free’ they say, and yet so much is chosen for us.”

“So… you _chose_ to sweat your life away on a rickety piece of wood in the middle of the Atlantic?” Rogers quips, not looking up from the movements of his callused hands.

“I _chose_ to travel,” Ed replies, entirely unfazed, “I always wanted to see more of the world than a blacksmith’s shop in a bleak little town in England. If this is the only way to realise my ambitions, so be it.” And although Rogers cannot himself see the beauty in their ocean crossings, her hopeful triumph is enough to make anyone smile at least a little.

“Will you be frank with me if I share a thought with you?” she asks him one night – quietly, in the privacy of her own cabin, illuminated weakly by a single candle reaching the end of its life.

“Of course, when am I anything but?” he jests, but soon realises from his friend’s solemn expression that a different mood entirely is appropriate.

“This is no trivial matter, Rogers,” she insists, “what I tell you now must remain in confidence.”

“Ed, by now you must know that you can trust me.” She regards him evenly, seeming to be in deep consideration. She appears exceedingly delicate without the cover of her usual mask – _cherub-like_ , he thinks, _ethereal_.

Finally, her thoughts must have achieved some semblance of order, for she speaks: “What we are doing – it is wrong.” Rogers’ mind reels, casting about desperately for what Ed’s words might possibly be in reference to, before she continues: “The cargo in the hold now – cotton, sugar, rum – it is all the labour of _slaves_. We ferry people to a lifetime of torture, for Christ’s sakes! ‘For freedom Christ has set us free’ they say. And do you know what comes next?” She does not give him pause to answer, even if he did know, “‘do not submit again to a yoke of slavery’. Should that not apply to _all_ , regardless of physical constitution? I cannot believe I was so blind to it before – it was willing ignorance, I see now.”

Every trace of the rosy-cheeked cherub has vanished now, a vengeful angel in its place, golden hair like a blazing halo around its head. _That is all well and good_ , Rogers wants to say, _but our insignificant actions will never bring about the justice you crave_. Nevertheless, pinned in the moment by that holy gaze, he finds himself replying instead: “What would you have us do?”

Mutiny. He had narrowly bit back a scoff when he first heard it, but perhaps he was too quick to dismiss. He now watches with rising awe, as, in the crew’s quarters, far beyond the upper-deck domain of the officers and merchants, she delivers her war cry. And he cannot even say that he is surprised her audience of seadogs and drunkards appears genuinely moved.

She is a captivating speaker – in another life, she might have been an actor or a politician. She convinces men long accustomed to the status quo of the Empire to reconsider, and even those whose hearts she does not manage to melt are enticed by promises of freedom, of revenge, of _piracy_. It has to be said: she knows her audience well. Eventually, an agreement is reached: they will take the ship in the night, before she next comes into port on the African coast.

The mutiny itself is a blur of scrambling bodies and whispered instructions, the roll of the waves doing nothing to ease Rogers’ restless stomach. _This will not go as planned_ , he is certain, _it will not be so easy._ His fears are realised when a number of officers, at first safe behind locked doors and hearing the commotion, emerge from their cabins, muskets in hand.

The scuffle is falling dangerously out of the hands of the crewmen when Ed finds him in the dark, miraculously not a hair out of place. She places a hand softly to his shoulder, the touch searing Rogers’ skin, and speaks: “Get out on deck. Quickly. Bring as many as you can.” Even now, her voice is commanding, divine, but she disappears into the night before he can ask for clarification.

Later, when he hears the explosion from the direction of the great cabin, he knows at once what has occurred, and even as the others let out cheers of “victory!” and “the ship is ours!”, he cannot find the will to celebrate with them.

_Are you really so foolish, my friend_ , he thinks, _as to give up your life for a cause that means so little in the end? Did you truly value yourself so lowly, or was it borne in desperation of easing your guilty conscience?_ Whatever the case may be, Rogers pledges that night to honour her sacrifice. For the years that follow, he commits his life to piracy, his ship’s red banner coming to strike fear into the hearts of traders across the east Atlantic.

“For you, my angel,” he vows, until the day that he, too, perishes on the great Blue.

 

*        *        *

 

When R finally returns home from his meeting with E, Han is already waiting for him with a box of takeout. “I got your favourite,” they announce eagerly from where they are lying on the sofa, “beef ho fan with no beansprouts – you heathen.”

R picks up the box gratefully, lifting Han’s legs so he can sit under them. “Sorry to offend your ancestors, but beansprouts are just crunchy slimy sticks with no flavour.”

Han laughs delightedly before segueing unashamedly into the topic they really wanted to discuss “So… How was your date with E? Oops, I mean, _‘meeting’._ ” R rolls his eyes good-naturedly as he chews on a mouthful of noodles. Apparently, he had been painfully obvious in his ogling of E yesterday, and Han has not stopped teasing him about it since.

“It was… kinda intense,” R replies, trying to pick up more noodles with his chopsticks but having them tragically fall back into the box repeatedly. “And _weird_. Really weird.” He frowns at the utensil in his hand, cursing his own ineptitude.

Han hums around a mouthful of rice. “Sounds about right, for E.”

They eat in silence for a few minutes, Han watching some cheesy gameshow on TV as R contemplates his next sentence. Before he can spook himself out of doing it, he speaks: “E mentioned that you used to be in an environmental activist group together, so you must know him pretty well. He acts so secretive and cagey… What’s his deal? And what’s his real name?” R had considered not bringing this up, knowing how much E seemed to value his anonymity, but in the end, he decided that if he is going to risk going to jail for someone, he at least wants to know a little bit about them first.

Han thinks for a bit as they chomp on a mouthful of those dreaded beansprouts, presumably thinking back on their time in the organisation. “E was always pretty mysterious, actually,” they admit, “and, to be honest, I don’t know his real name. I remember a bunch of names he’s gone by – Steven Sharpe, Freddie Davis, Kelvin Moore – but none of them are real, as far as I know.” When R raises an eyebrow, Han explains with a mischievous grin: “Don’t tell him this, but I was at his place once and I found a stash of fake IDs, passports, stuff like that. It was crazy!”

“Shit,” is the only response R can come up with. “So, if he was always like this… why did you trust him?” R is certain he would not elect to follow a leader who refused to divulge even his own name – things like that absolutely _scream_ untrustworthy.

“Because he proved himself,” Han replies without a moment’s pause, “again and again. He worked the hardest of any of us – writing flyers, planning rallies, lobbying politicians… He fought for our ideals more intensely than anyone else in the group, and most of the time it was _him_ bearing all the insults, all the punishments. He _earned_ our trust… and our respect.” They shrug as though the answer were obvious, taking a bite of a vegetable spring roll that looks way too oily to be good for anyone.

“Wow,” R says in astonishment, his box of noodles forgotten on his lap and growing colder by the minute, “so does _no one_ know _anything_ about this guy?”

Han considers the question, gazing unseeingly at the half-eaten spring roll in their hand, which they are now twirling absently between their fingers. “I suppose there’s one person,” they begin after a moment, “E got into the group through this guy called Ferdinand. Ferdinand never really talked much about their past either, but he got pretty drunk once and said he met E at university – at an LGBT rally, I think. They took philosophy courses together, or something. That’s really all I know though; E is an interesting one, for sure.”

“Yeah,” R agrees, “interesting.”

When R arrives for their next meeting, E opens the door almost immediately after he knocks, again dressed down in his best just-got-out-of-bed look. Thankfully, Mrs DuBois is not there this time to see R’s blush. R enters the apartment to find a fresh cup of coffee already waiting for him, and E gestures for him to sit at the tiny wooden table, where an ominous-looking brown envelope awaits. The sofa still appears to be out of order.

Again, E seats himself opposite R and speaks: “I’m sure you remember the first phase of our plan – we need to obtain the password of an employee with at least a level 3 clearance, and I’ve identified an ideal target.” _Straight to business then. Alright._ R takes a big gulp of his coffee, grimacing at its bitterness.

E opens the envelope and pulls out a number of documents and photos of a middle-aged woman; the pictures appear to be of her at restaurants, at shops, at the park, all taken from quite a distance away and with her not looking at the camera and – “oh my God, you stalked her _._ ” R should have expected this, but somehow, he is still surprised.

“Well, I didn’t do the actual following, but yes,” E confirms, no sign of unease at the admission, “her name is Edith Bloom. She’s the deputy head of accounting at the D.P.S.I. – clearance level 4.” As he speaks, he lays out the contents of the folder neatly on the table; R would be lying if he said they did not make him feel the least bit uncomfortable.

“Why her?” he asks.

E answers calmly, with an unsettling level of personal detachment. “She’s held her position at the D.P.S.I. for close to ten years now, but has been passed over for a promotion no fewer than three times. So… she feels undervalued, demoralised even. She divorced from her husband twelve years ago and never remarried, but she’s lonely, so she has young men spend time with her in exchange for expensive gifts, food, that sort of thing.”

“So… she’s a sugar mommy,” R states. This is not where he thought this conversation was going at all.

One corner of E’s mouth lifts just the tiniest fraction. “Yes,” he confirms, “and that’s good news for us, because it means we know exactly what her type is.” R furrows his brow, not seeing how this fits in with the rest of the plan, but E ignores his confusion and continues: “We also know that she’s reasonably technologically illiterate, desperately wishes her daughter would talk to her more, loves stage musicals, and absolutely _detests_ anything to do with marine biology.” R raises an eyebrow, and E explains: “Her ex-husband was a marine biologist. He left her for a colleague. But the real key bit of information is this: she often spends long hours working from the Fountain Ridge Café, when the need to escape that insufferable boss of hers grows too strong.” E places three fingers on one of the photos in particular as he speaks, sliding it across the table so R can have a closer look. In it, Edith sits at the window of a coffee shop, typing away on her laptop; the photo appears to be taken from somewhere across the street. “And she _always_ sits at that table.”

“So, I assume we’re still going with the same plan, right? Set up a fake wi-fi point, get her to connect, then log her password?” E gives a short nod, so he continues: “But surely she’ll just connect to the café’s wi-fi – do you want me to disable it? Because that would require-”

E’s sudden smile cuts him off mid-sentence. “Don’t worry about that,” he says with a roguish glint in his eyes, “leave it to me.”

Two days later, in accordance with the plan, R enters the Fountain Ridge Café an hour before Edith is set to arrive. He orders himself a large ice tea and sits in a corner of the coffee shop three tables down from Edith’s, just as they planned. Knowing what he is here to do, it is incredibly difficult to act ‘normal’, although he has probably been in a café like this a hundred times over – everything makes him feel self-conscious. He tries to put it out of his mind as much as possible, however, as he opens his laptop and starts setting up for the operation.

Once R has everything prepared, he starts scrolling software engineering job listings to pass the time. _It’s not like I’m getting paid for this hacking thing, after all._ After about half an hour, he notices that a dark-haired young man has taken the table beside Edith’s. _Shit, that’s where E was going to sit._ R panics for a second, not having been briefed on what to do in such a situation, until the man looks up to meet his eye and smiles. R’s jaw drops. _Oh, my god – that’s E._ He looks so different that R had not recognised him at all.

The man he is looking at now is a shaggy-haired brunet where E is a long-haired blond, brown-eyed where E’s eyes are a piercing blue, clad in leather and ripped jeans where he has never seen E in anything but a hoodie or pyjamas. But the physical difference is not the only change. E does not wear the disguise like a costume; rather, it is as though he has become a different person altogether. This person’s expression is broody, eyes troubled, posture relaxed but not to the point of being sloppy; gone is every trace of either the polite host or the paranoid hacktivist. _He specialises in identity fraud,_ R remembers, _I get it now._

_Wait a second,_ R thinks with rising anxiety, _is he planning on talking to Edith like that? That must be why he wanted to know her ‘type’… Shit._ He is absolutely mortified on E’s behalf. _There is no way this is going to go well._ Before R can have a full-on freak-out, however, he spots their target entering the café and springs into action, double checking on his laptop that his system is ready to go.

A couple of minutes later, once Edith has gotten her large cappuccino from the counter, she sits down predictably at her usual table. _So far so good._ She removes her laptop from its bag, placing it in front of her but not opening it just yet.  For a while she just sips her drink and stares out the window, as though relishing her escape from the office. Having worked at the D.P.S.I. himself, R empathises strongly.

After a good few minutes of this, E sits up a little straighter, looking around at the various patrons in the café as though searching for someone. His gaze settles, seemingly without predetermination, on Edith, and he stands and casually approaches her. _Oh no. Here it goes._ R almost cannot bring himself to watch.

E taps the woman’s shoulder and flashes her an apologetic smile. From across the room, R can only catch pieces of the conversation, but E seems to be saying that his phone has died and is asking to borrow her laptop for something to do with his mother’s birthday and theatre tickets. Edith appears apprehensive, gesturing around the room as though suggesting someone else might be more willing to help him. R cringes internally. _Who the fuck thought this would be a good plan? He should’ve just let me do the extra work of disabling the café wi-fi._ However, E is not dissuaded. He holds a hand to his heart, lowering his voice beyond R’s ability to hear, but his face is plainly imploring. He even touches his other hand gently to her arm. _Oh, my God. This is too painful to watch. Maybe I should just leave right now._

But before can even process what is happening, Edith is smiling and E is sitting down opposite her with his caramel latte. _What the fuck._ She opens her laptop and unlocks it, before turning it over to him. E smiles gratefully as he takes it from her, saying something about her being “such a lifesaver”. “You’re a good son,” Edith is commenting, “most kids these days aren’t like you. My daughter…”

E listens intently to her words as though they are completely new information to him. “I can’t believe you have a grown-up daughter,” E replies, “I would’ve thought you were too young!” And Edith blushes – _actually_ blushes _. Okay, how is this even happening right now?_

After a minute or two of disturbingly flirty banter, R gets confirmation on his screen that E has indeed managed to connect the laptop to R’s wi-fi. He sends E an almost imperceptible nod, and the man starts to turn the laptop back towards Edith, thanking her profusely for her kindness and getting ready to stand up. However, she reaches out to grab his forearm to stop him. “Why don’t you sit with me?” _Shit, this wasn’t meant to turn into a date – she’s supposed to be working and logging into her government account!_

If E feels the same alarm, however, he does not let it show on his face. He merely smiles warmly and settles back down into his chair, picking up his latte for a casual sip. They continue to chat amiably, E leaning forward intently and listening to everything Edith has to say with keen interest. He laughs openly at all her ‘jokes’ and she seems entirely taken by the whole charade, because at one point – _I shit you not_ – she reaches out to wipe a bit of coffee from the corner of E’s mouth. _This can’t be happening,_ R thinks in disbelief, although there is a small part of him that is hardly surprised that E is such a good actor, such a good pretender – the part of him who remembers the willful young woman who sailed the Atlantic in midshipman’s clothes. _But that was just a dream,_ R reminds himself, _we can’t help the strange things we dream sometimes._

After what feels like an eternity, but in reality is closer to fifteen minutes, Edith lowers her voice, leaning close to E across the table. _Oh God, it’s happening. She’s propositioning him, isn’t she?_ E’s act remains unbroken, as always. “Oh, I’d love to,” he is saying – _wait, what the fuck, are you insane!? –_ “but maybe some other time? I’ve gotta run now – I have to give a talk on pelagic sharks of the North Atlantic.”

Edith freezes. “Excuse me?” she asks as though wishing desperately to have misheard. R has to cover a giggle by turning it into a cough. _She hates marine biology_ – _E you sly bastard._

“I’m a TA in marine biology,” E explains simply, as though entirely unaware of the sheer horror written across Edith’s face.

“Oh, I see…” she replies in a decidedly colder tone, “good luck with that, then.”

“Oh, thanks,” E answers as he finally rises from his seat, “maybe we’ll see each other around sometime?” He still maintains that warm, pleasant tone, offering one last smile as he puts on his leather jacket and exits the café. Edith watches after him, wearing an expression you might expect from a person who has just caught a glimpse into the mouth of Hell. After a few moments of utter shock, she shakes her head as though to dispel the last half hour from her mind completely, and turns to her laptop. _Finally_.

Twenty minutes later, R rounds the corner into a nearby park where E, still dressed in that uncharacteristic outfit of his, is waiting on a wooden bench surrounded by pigeons. “I’ve got the password,” R announces in a lowered voice as he sits down next to him, “’KevBacon_1984’. I’m not even kidding.”

E gives an amused half-smile, not looking up from the pecking birds at his feet – _the usual expressionlessness is back then, clearly_ – and says: “Good work. It’s time to find out what these people are hiding.”

“I’ve gotta say,” R says, as always unable to just take a hint and shut up, “that was some smooth acting – colour me surprised.”

E’s eyes move to look at R while his face remains facing forward, and he purses his lips in deliberation. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he speaks slowly, as though giving himself ample opportunity to change his mind, “but I actually minored in Acting in university.”

R is speechless for a good few seconds, too shocked by this revelation to formulate any coherent response. “So you’re a theatre kid,” he finally replies, “not gonna lie: I wouldn’t have taken you for the type at all. History, I might’ve said, philosophy even.” E tilts his head an increment as he considers R’s appraisal of him. “You better be careful, though,” R continues with a grin, “with all this personal info you’re spilling left and right, soon I’ll know everything about you.”


	4. Stupid Things

“Okay, we’ve got the password,” R explains once they make it back to E’s dingy flat, “but I’ll still have to do a bit of work before we can access Edith’s account.” They are once again sitting at the tiny dinner table, upon which E has just placed two steaming mugs – one coffee, one tea. “We need to be untraceable, of course, but the D.P.S.I. also employs text message verification anytime someone logs in from an outside computer, so we’re gonna have to make it look like we’re on Edith’s laptop.”

R looks up from his own laptop to see E watching him across the table, still dressed as the friendly marine biologist, but with his freed golden locks draping gracefully over his shoulders. He nods slowly at R’s words and gets straight to the point: “Can you do it?”

R shrugs nonchalantly. “Of course – I got everything I needed from her at the café.” For all his rambling awkwardness, this is the one area in which R is actually confident in his own abilities.

Out of nowhere, E breaks into one of his rare smiles, one that could even feasibly be categorised as _fond_ , and R forgets to breathe for a minute. “What?” he asks in breathless confusion, and the heavenly smile drops as quickly as it appeared.

“I was unsure when they first suggested it,” E replies, “but I’m glad Han brought me to you.” The softness in his eyes now trumps a thousand smiles; R is sure his heart flat out stops for a second. Unsure of how to react to such a statement from the notoriously impassive activist, he turns his face back to the screen and gets to work.

As R types, E picks up a book which had been lying cover side down on the table. He flips calmly to a page near the middle and begins to read. It appears to be some 19th century political philosophy treatise, dreadfully boring – it does not even have cover art – but E seems invested enough. R sneaks a few glances at the man – _who can blame me?_ – just to admire his divine face sculpted into an expression of such pensive concentration. He must be able to sense R staring, however, for their gazes meet across the table, at which point R lowers his eyes quickly.

Eventually, R finishes getting everything set up, types ‘KevBacon_1984’ into the password bar on the official D.P.S.I. login page, and hits ‘enter’. “Alright, you’re up,” he announces, turning the laptop around and sliding it across to E, who looks up keenly from the pages before him. He takes the computer and absorbs himself in the thousands of correspondences and files to be found in Edith’s account.

As E works, R downs the final dregs of his coffee and leans back in the rickety wooden chair, which is starting to dig uncomfortably into his back. Careful not to repeat his mistake of blatant gawking, he lets his eyes wander the room – anywhere except E. There is honestly not much to look at, and soon it is his mind that is wandering instead. He is not sure what he is thinking about when E’s voice snaps him out of his reverie: “R – I’m so sorry, you must be so terribly bored. I don’t have much in the way of entertainment, but feel free to have a look at this treatise – it’s one of my favourites, contains some truly fascinating ideas.” R eyes the book on the table with mild aversion. E notices this and continues: “Alternatively, there are some other books in the bedroom. You’re welcome to have a browse.”

Although he is hardly in the mood for reading, and hearing E say ‘bedroom’ seems to have briefly short-circuited his brain, anything is better than the idle silence of the past few minutes, so R stands up from his seat and ambles across the room. He opens and enters through a door which had always previously been closed to him.

Like the rest of the flat, E’s bedroom is largely barren, almost entirely devoid of non-essentials. It is dark too, and stuffy, the single sliver of sunlight passing through a gap in the drawn-up curtains illuminating a thick cloud of dust motes. There is a twin-sized bed, a bedside table, and a chest of drawers upon which sits the collection of books E mentioned. Nothing else. R wonders where Han found the stash of fake IDs – in one of the drawers perhaps, or under a loose floorboard?

He steps over to the mini library. There are only ten books or so, ranging in topic from ancient Roman history to what appears to be the memoir of a Cold War political prisoner (R cannot be sure, as the book is entirely in Russian). As he reads all the covers, R notices something metallic on the dresser. Upon closer inspection, he finds it to be an old picture frame, lying flat so that the photo faces down into the wood. _I shouldn’t. What about E’s privacy?_ He thinks to himself. _But then again, it’s only a photo…_

He quietly turns the frame over; it is actually quite heavy. Within the confines of the rusting wrought iron roses sits an old frayed photograph; in it, a younger E – perhaps fourteen or fifteen – sits on a rock atop a seaside cliff, flaxen hair whipping around in the wind and staring straight into the camera as if startled a photo is being taken. Beside him sits another person, hair darker but equally as wild, with their unseen face turned towards the ocean. It is not a particularly good photo – _it must mean a lot to him if he keeps it_. R lays the frame back down guiltily. He grabs the only fiction book on E’s shelf – some mid-20th century dystopian sci-fi – and returns to the kitchen.

R begins reading the novel, but is soon bored by the excessive exposition and decides to skip to a random bit in the middle, only to find that he does not know half the characters and has no idea what is happening.

“It appears the D.P.S.I. is about to approve significant donations to several questionable organisations, one of which is co-owned by our friend Edith Bloom, along with several other high-ranking members,” E suddenly announces without preamble, not looking up from the screen in front of him, “from what I can gather, the deal is going through by the end of the week. Unfortunately, the official contracts and memos are locked – it says they can only be accessed from within the D.P.S.I. facility…” He furrows his brow in frustration, and finally lifts his eyes to face R: “Any chance we could gain access remotely, through an email virus or some such?”

R, who is still digesting all the information which has just been thrown at him, considers this for a moment. “The D.P.S.I.’s firewall is pretty strong – not to toot my own horn, but I worked on it myself while I was there. I mean, I can still do it, but it might take a while… maybe longer than the end of the week… But in the meantime, we could leak some of those incriminating emails, if you want?”

E frowns, pursing his lips in deliberation. He speaks quietly, almost to himself: “That’s a good long-term plan, yes; but in the meantime, this deal is going through as we speak, and experience tells me that these emails won’t be enough – we need something more incriminating. And we need to get it before Friday… We’ll have to go in.” R’s eyebrows shoot up, but he is too stunned to say anything. E’s stare bores directly into R’s soul, or where he imagines his soul would be if he had one. “Rather, _you’ll_ have to go in.”

“I look ridiculous,” R complains the next morning as E gives him a once-over in the back of a dodgy van. The wig and overalls feel like a bad Halloween costume. 

“You _look_ like an inspector,” E corrects, handing R a clipboard. He reaches into his own pocket to fish out an official-looking badge, with a picture of R printed on the front, taken only yesterday against the wall of E’s flat. He reaches to clip it to R’s breast pocket, and R is thankful that he is wearing enough layers to obscure his thundering heartbeat. “This is the fastest way. This ID will work, trust me – you just need confidence.” _Easy for you to say_ , R thinks bitterly as he steps out of the van and onto the pavement.

His legs are shaking, palms sweating profusely as he steps up to the D.P.S.I.’s reception. Claire is at the desk today – she was always the nice one. “I’m here for an electronics inspection,” he says as rehearsed, afraid to meet her eye lest she recognise him. She does not, only asking politely for his ID, which he promptly hands over. As she makes a copy of it, she says: “You sure you’re meant to be here? We just had an inspection a month ago.” Her tone is entirely conversational but R panics, his brain filling with static.

“Well that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Inspections are meant to be a surprise.” He says it with a bit too much hostility, and Claire’s smile falters. R curses himself internally.

The following silence starts to drag. _Fuck. She can tell the ID’s a fake – she’s probably alerting the police right now. Shit. What should I do?_ But before R’s legs can fully collapse under him, Claire is handing R back his badge, along with a D.P.S.I. visitor’s access card. He thanks her with a curt nod and steps over to the entrance.

Once inside, R walks from office to office, trying to ‘act natural’ as E likes to say. He looks around appraisingly, poking at random bits of electronic equipment as if inspecting them for something, and makes random marks on his clipboard. He eventually finds himself in his old department – several of his past co-workers are at their desks working, and a few others are gathered around the microwave gossiping about something or other.

He walks over to an unoccupied corner of the office, carrying on his charade whilst covertly logging in to Edith’s account on one of the free computers. He quickly locates the files E requested, copying them onto a drive. R marvels at how easily the flimsy-at-best ‘inspector’ can roam the institute freely without being spared a second glance – not even his former colleagues recognise him or pay him any mind. R is not sure if he should be impressed with himself or insulted, but he is soon in possession of the documents and back in the van.

Back at E’s place, E trawls through the stolen files meticulously as R sits by and gives the old sci-fi novel another go. He finds it is not so bad once you accustom yourself to the writer’s very particular style.

E suddenly slams down the laptop screen, fixing R in his fiery sights. “You’ve been brilliant R – these documents truly are everything we needed.” R gapes back, book still held uselessly in his hands. E continues heatedly, growing increasingly angry as he speaks: “These memos confirm my very worst suspicions: that not only are D.P.S.I. and other government officials embezzling funds intended for the subsidisation of clean energies, but they are also actively supporting mining and fossil fuel corporations and those that lead them.” Before R can even process this statement, he carries on in his tirade: “I have never been able to understand how people can be so selfish, so _blinded_ by greed and self-indulgence that they can willingly condemn an entire planet of people – not only now, but for generations to come! And for what? So that these middle-aged bourgeoisie can enjoy their yachts and gilded mansions for the next 20 years while the world around them crumbles? Have they no compassion? Not a single ounce of humanity left amongst their piles of cash?” He pauses for the briefest moment, fuming, then states flatly: “They deserve no compassion from us. No mercy.”

At this moment, memories of the bloodstained revolutionary, the righteous angel, feel all too real, and not at all far away. “Shit…” is all R manages to respond, as usual.

E pinches the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes, taking several long breaths to calm himself. When he looks back at R, the flames in his eyes have dimmed by a fraction, but he remains intensely resolute. “Please leak these immediately.”

That afternoon, every D.P.S.I. employee and major news outlet in the nation anonymously receives a link to a collection of documents. With it, the following message:

“While millions suffer in cities and prisons across our country, the true criminals live in luxury, hiding behind the very flag they have sworn to uphold. It has come time to expose these snakes in the grass and to exterminate them.

Yours in solidarity, Apollo.”

 

*      *      *

_Brazil, 2327_

Ralia enters the pub with her hood up and her head down. Being sure to make eye contact with no one, she marches across the dingy space without pause, straight past the bar and into the dark hallway with the broken light. She finds the door opposite the restroom and places her hand on the panel. She does not flinch as the laser scans her eyes. The door opens.

This room is even grimier that the last, and a scent clings in the air which betrays the illegal activities of its previous occupants. Ralia makes a direct line for the small group of people, gathered around their leader yet still chatting amongst each other.

E’lynn smiles widely when she notices who is approaching, her swinging feet not touching the floor from where she sits upon a table. “Ralia,” she says, “we’ve waited for you.”

“You know you don’t have to do that,” Ralia replies flatly, taking the closest empty seat at the fringe of the group.

“We couldn’t well start without you, could we?” E’lynn flashes that charming smile of hers, all rosy cheeks and pearly white teeth, and Ralia is almost taken by it. Almost.

“You’re lucky it was me who arrived and not an officer, or a spy. How many times have I told you this meeting location isn’t safe? That door lock is ancient and there’s people everywhere.”

E’lynn’s smile drops, twisting into the much more familiar pout. “And how many times have I told _you_ that in the midst of all the barflies is exactly where we’re safest? Where we’re least likely to be suspected?”

Ralia does not want to get into an argument, especially not with so many people watching, so she lets the subject drop. “Well, I’m here now anyway. So I guess you can start the meeting.”

E’lynn frowns slightly, as though she is disappointed Ralia has chosen not to press her point further, but the expression is gone as quickly as it came. “Well, we’ve got some really exciting stuff to talk about today, as you’ll soon find out, and I’d just like to begin by thanking all of you, once again, for being so loyal to the Society up to this point. Whether you joined yesterday or from its conception, you are all appreciated. Trust and conviction are what hold us together. Although I’m sure none of you need a reminder of why we fight, I think we should hear, again, the scale of the issue we’re facing. Ralia?”

Over a dozen pairs of eyes suddenly turn to fix on Ralia, who sighs and speaks: “Three operations were done today that I know of. Another seventeen are scheduled for the coming week – that’s nearly double what they were doing last year.”

“You mean, what _you_ were doing,” someone mutters, but E’lynn ignores them.

“Thank you, Ralia,” she says, her gaze lingering a second too long to be entirely comfortable. “As you can see, the scale of Cliffaid’s operations grows constantly. We can’t afford to sit idle any longer, which is why I’m glad to announce that Ange has finally come through for us. Ange?”

Ange stands, lifting a plain brown bag proudly above his head for all to look upon, before laying it down on the table at E’lynn’s side. Their leader grins, triumphant. “In this bag,” she announces, “are the Spiidrs that will finally rid the world of that evil for good.” A murmur spreads amongst the crowd. Even Ralia has to say she was not expecting this. The chatter ceases as soon as E’lynn speaks again. “One operation, one click – that’s all it’s going to take to bring their system down. By next week, Cliffaid will no longer exist.”

“Isn’t that a bit hasty?” Ralia speaks up, and a knowing smile creeps up on E’lynn’s face, “haven’t you considered that-”

“Oh, shut up!” someone interrupts – Ralia thinks his name is Bast’eo, “we all know you’re really a Cliffaid sympathiser. You don’t belong here.”

“Bast’eo,” E’lynn reprimands coldly, “let her finish.”

The man frowns but complies. Ralia continues: “I just think that it might be wise to do a little more recon, learn a little more about what we’re up against, before we go all… Spiidr on them. That’s all.”

“I hear your concern, Ralia,” E’lynn responds, her expression finally one hundred percent serious, “but surely you know better than any of us the true extent of Cliffaid’s reach, how many people will continue to be exploited, like so many of us have, until they’re stopped. We simply cannot afford to postpone this any further. We owe it to those seventeen people – and countless others who would come after – to end this.”

“And what of the Relocaters? If we Spiidr everything as you seem to be planning, that’ll destroy the Relocaters too. We’ll never be able to undo what Cliffaid has done.”

E’lynn casts her gaze downwards, to her hands. “Yes, that is truly regrettable. But you and I both know that even with the Relocaters active, we would never be able to get justice, to undo the wrong. The technology can’t survive. It must be destroyed.”

Ralia has made her points; if E’lynn and the other will not listen, there is nothing more she can do about that, so she concedes.

“Alright,” E’lynn announces, “we’ll do it tomorrow night. It’s to be a stealth operation, so we’re keeping numbers small. _I_ will go, along with Tiago, Dom, and Ralia.” Ralia’s head snaps up when she hears her name; she had been watching a cockroach scuttling under the seat in front of her.

“Are you serious?” Bast’eo complains, seemingly outraged, “you can’t trust her, dammit. She works for them! She’s the one doing all the Relocater operations! I wouldn’t be surprised if she was a spy. I should go instead.” He fixes Ralia with a cold glare, but she does not flinch.

“I don’t perform the operations,” she says, “I’m just a tech assistant. I don’t actually know anything about… well, anything Cliffaid does.”

E’lynn speaks up then, causing Bast’eo to finally redirect his scowl elsewhere. “I’m including Ralia specifically _because_ she works at Cliffaid. She knows the building better than you, better than any of us, I’d wager.” She sends Ralia the briefest smile of reassurance, one that could easily have been imagined on Ralia’s part. “If you have any further concerns, you may take it up with me after the meeting. But I assure you – I would trust Ralia with my life.”

The next evening, they arrive at Cliffaid headquarters – E’lynn, Dom, and Ralia huddled in the back of a delivery van, Tiago driving. After a tense pause, the gate opens to let them through; it seems Tiago was not lying about his skill with the security system.

Tiago parks out back by the delivery entrance and the other three disembark, smoothing over the technician uniforms Ralia had so conveniently stolen for them earlier that day. Tiago walks up to the door, putting something in his eye as he approaches. He places a special glove-clad hand onto the panel, which proceeds to scan his eyes. It takes maybe a second longer than usual, but the door lock eventually clicks and lets them in. Tiago steps back, handing E’lynn a cloned staff access chip and giving the group one last thumbs up before returning to the van to wait.

Once the door has again shut behind them, E’lynn turns to Ralia, extending the chip she was just given. “You know the place best,” she says, “take the lead.”

Ralia nods, saying nothing, and takes the chip; she places it behind her ear, as she does every day with her own, and it latches on. “Let’s go.”

E’lynn and Dom follow Ralia as she navigates the corridors of the Cliffaid facility. “There’s only one lift down to the control room, and it’s in the main building,” she explains as they walk. Every once in a while, they pause for E’lynn to plant a Spiidr. They pass only a few employees at this hour, some that Ralia even recognises, but they do not acknowledge her nor stop to make conversation. _So much for the company community_.

“For the record,” Ralia says as a section door beeps open for her, “I still think that doing this now is a rash decision.”

E’lynn gives half an amused chuckle. “Funnily enough, I think I managed to figure that out myself from what you said yesterday.”

Ralia rolls her eyes. “I’m serious, I-” she begins to speak but has to cut herself off when she sees someone exiting a lift just ahead of them.

Once they have passed the person, Dom is the first to speak up: “That lift said it goes to the basement. Is it not the one we want?”

“No,” Ralia replies, “that’s a different basement – some kind of storage room. It’s supposedly the worst place to work in here; we call it the dungeon.”

“What’s down there?” Dom asks.

“No idea.”

A few minutes later, they cross the bridge into the main building. “Here it is,” Ralia announces, “the entrance to the control room, just like you wanted.”

E’lynn nods and hands Dom the brown Spiidr bag. “You know what to do, right?”

Dom replies affirmatively, wishes them good luck, then turns to leave. When Ralia raises an eyebrow questioningly, E’lynn explains: “He’s going to cause a distraction – he’s good at those. The control room is understaffed at this hour, so when the technician gets called away, we’ll have our chance. All we have to do now is wait.”

They decide to stake out the lift from around the corner. As they stand watch, Ralia continues where she was previously cut off. “Are you sure we should be doing this now?” When E’lynn seems ready to let out an exasperated sigh, Ralia presses on: “Seriously. We barely know what we’re doing. We don’t know anything about Cliffaid’s inner operations, or goodness forbid, _wider_ operations! Maybe they have backups of their work elsewhere; maybe they have supporters in other places who would continue their work. _Maybe_ we should gather more information first, before going in and… blowing everything up!”

The lift door _dings_ open just then, and a weary-looking technician exits, tool case in hand. She looks like she could use about five coffees. And a year-long nap. Once she has disappeared down the hall, E’lynn and Ralia make for the lift and press the ‘down’ button.

_This chip better work_ , Ralia muses when the door opens once again. It does, and soon enough, they are making their descent down into the earth.

“I understand your concern,” E’lynn replies then, “I honestly do. But if there are others, we can deal with them later – they’ll be there regardless. My priority is stopping what Cliffaid is doing _now_. You _know_ how fucked up it all is; that’s why you joined the Society, isn’t it? Because you realised what was going on? People have had their bodies and lives _stolen_ , just because they were born poor, because they needed money for their families, because some rich asshole decided to buy themselves a few more decades of life… You’ve seen how this is affecting people – Tiago, at thirty, is in the body of an eighty-year-old man; Dom is dying of lung cancer; my _mother_ … The swaps are inhumane and exploitative, and we have to stop them _now_.”

The door dings open again at that moment, and E’lynn steps into the empty control room. Ralia can feel the air pressure against her eardrums. “I know, E’lynn, I just… have a bad feeling about it, okay?”

The control room is stuffy and dusty. On one end of the room, a massive screen displaying the Cliffaid company logo spans nearly the entire wall, while the rest of the place is covered in archaic technology and filing cabinets. _Actual_ filing cabinets. One of the walls is glass, beyond which lies a room of computer servers lit with an eerie purple light.

“C’mon…” E’lynn says, skipping over to the computer screen and taking a seat. “You need to relax a little – you’re too serious.” She inserts a drive into the computer and gets to work preparing its downfall. “You know, your years as a scientist have clearly changed you; you used to be _way_ more spontaneous.” She sends Ralia a significant look and a cheeky smile.

“Yeah, and I did a lot of stupid things back then too,” Ralia mumbles under her breath, but judging by E’lynn’s frown, she heard it. Ralia turns away then, opening one of the file drawers and flipping through the papers for something to do. They seem to mostly be machine designs and facility blueprints.

“Oh, get over yourself,” E’lynn retorts as she types away on the keyboard, “just admit you had a good time. You can deny it all you want, but you were happy; I know you were.”

Ralia sighs, her hand pausing on the handle of the next drawer. “Maybe I was,” she relents, “but that was a long time ago.” The sound of E’lynn’s typing stops for a second, and then resumes. Ralia does not turn to check on her expression.

After a few more moments, E’lynn stands. “Almost done,” she announces, “just one more of these to install.” She pulls out a Spiidr from her pocket, holding it up to the light as though inspecting a jewel. “Be right back,” she says, before heading next door into the server room to plant the device.

Ralia pulls open the third drawer and sifts through the files. This time, one word catches her attention: ‘Relocater’. She pulls out the folder and opens it; it appears to contain the original design and inventor’s notes of the dreaded device. Call it morbid curiosity or what-have-you, but Ralia finds her eyes glued to the pages.

E’lynn soon returns. “Damn, it feels good to finally achieve something,” she says, shaking the dust off her hands, “we can leave as soon as I set this program to run – it’ll fry the servers, and detonate the Spiidrs for good measure.” When Ralia does not respond, E’lynn asks: “What are you doing?”

“I thought I’d have a look through some of these files – you know, gather intel and all that, in case we’re missing something.” She frowns as she looks at the inventor’s concept drawings. “These are the original plans for the Relocaters. This is what started everything.”

“Don’t worry,” E’lynn says, voice steady, “it’ll all be gone soon. As soon as I lock in the command, the programme will be in motion. Then we’ll have… ten minutes to get out of here.”

In the meantime, Ralia continues to read. _Who honestly thought inventing such a thing was a good idea?_ But the more she reads, the more confused she becomes. _Wait a second…_

“Oh shit,” Ralia curses under her breath. She hastily calls out: “E’lynn, you have to see this!” Ralia turns around, only to find E’lynn’s hand hovering over the keyboard, where she has already pressed ‘enter’ on the final command. “Fuck.”

The triumph on E’lynn’s face fades quickly into concern. “Ralia? What is it?”

Ralia’s throat feels dry, her body feels unsteady, but she tries to speak anyway. “The Relocaters,” she manages to choke out, “they don’t work the way we thought they did.” Though E’lynn’s brow remains bunched up in confusion, it is evident she is bracing herself for the other shoe to drop. “They don’t actually… _swap_ people’s bodies, per se. Dr Shinda, the person who invented them, couldn’t actually find a way to stably transfer consciousnesses, or brains, between real bodies. So… they actually remove most of the brain, keep it alive _ex vivo_ and hook it up to a two-way transmitter.”

“Ralia,” E’lynn says flatly, “what are you saying.”

“What I’m _saying_ is that Tiago, Dom, everyone else who’s been ‘swapped’… they’re walking around with transmitters in their skulls, but their brains are _here_. In the dungeon. And in ten minutes, when this place blows, they’ll die.”

E’lynn is like marble; she does not move. There is nothing to say.


	5. For The People

_New Mexico, 1933_

“Ladies and gentlemen – a moment of your time, please! Our sources report that the notorious robber and fugitive known as the Red Bandit is being harboured in your… _town_.” The officer bellows to his scattered audience which represents the entire population of said town, all rounded up on Main Street outside the sheriff’s office. The wanted poster he hoists above his head thrashes about in the dusty breeze like a death omen. It features no face, only a striking crimson handkerchief – printed, of course, in grayscale – and a pair of wicked eyes, half in shadow. “This man is a dangerous felon, and is to be executed upon capture.”

The man scans the members of the crowd, catching each eye one after the other with his unyielding gaze. Even Rusty, standing at the fringes of the group, feels the stare penetrate him uncomfortably for a few seconds, before it moves on to its next victim.

Through the entire performance, no one speaks a word. For some, this is a result of genuine ignorance, but Rusty knows with certainty that a fair few of the inhabitants and vagabonds standing around him could all too easily give up the identity of the Red Bandit if they so choose. That they do not is a testament to the man’s virtue and his ability to inspire unwavering loyalty in misfits and unfortunates across the county.

For the bigger part of two years now, the Red Bandit has been a plague on landowners and traders across this forgotten stretch of the desert. Estates are robbed of supplies, farmsteads of their livestock, and freight trains crossing into the county exit considerably lighter in their load. Known only by the signature crimson handkerchief he uses to obscure his face, the Red Bandit never takes jewellery or silverware or cash, leaving such valuables securely in their place; he steals only food, water, and the means to produce such. And he never keeps them for himself.

The officer balls his hand into a fist in frustration, crumpling the poster within. “Be aware that if you do not speak, you will be seen as traitors and obstructers of justice.” At Rusty’s side, Al stirs, his hand twitching as if itching to reach for his pistol in its holster. The officer continues into the tense silence, his face twisting into an ugly scowl: “Wouldn’t it be a shame if your precious town were to suffer from an… unfortunate _accident_?” His eyes roam over the row of rickety houses and stacked weathered barrels, which appear fragile enough that a single spark from his very gaze might bring them to all-consuming flame.

Al’s eyebrows rise incrementally, the only external sign betraying his inner turmoil. No one else but Rusty notices the breath he takes, deep and prolonged as he steadies himself for what Rusty realises he intends to do. After all, harm to the innocent is the one thing he could never allow.

Before Rusty met Al, he was a lonely traveller, wandering from town to town, only stopping long enough to fill his belly with stew and silence his miserable thoughts with the cheapest liquor to be found. When he first caught sight of that sandy-haired stranger, lifting bowls of soup and bread above the crowd as he made his way through the saloon, he could never have known how his life was soon to be transformed for the better. Al had distributed the meals amongst a group of scruffy tramps, who had cheered and greeted him as an old friend. Running with the Red Bandit, Rusty felt like he had finally found a calling, could finally make a difference to the drought and destitution in which he existed.

If Al had given Rusty his purpose, then Rusty had given Al his selfishness. To be selfish is regarded as an iniquity, so Rusty can forgive the absence of it in the Good Bandit, but sometimes to think of yourself is exactly what is needed. As such, Rusty’s instinct for self-preservation has saved the lives of Al and his gang more often than he can count. And it appears that the time has come once again for Rusty to protect his beloved Bandit from foolishness.

He gives Al’s hand a short but unmistakable tug, and the man’s head turns sharply to face him, eyes fierce with outrage. Rusty shakes his head almost imperceptibly. _No, don’t do it – don’t you dare._

The officer’s deputies have now dragged a dark-haired young woman to the front of the crowd, shoving her roughly to the ground before their boss. “We found this one in her home,” one deputy announces, “hoarding _stolen_ goods.” He drops a confiscated sack in front of her, scattering an assortment of canned foods and preserves over the dusty earth.

“Well, what do we have here?” the officer speaks, “this woman is a thief – she will be jailed along with every other lying criminal in this town... _unless_ the Bandit steps forward.” The man smiles, as if proud of himself for thinking up this ultimatum.

“Please, no,” the woman pleads, “I- I’ve got two little girls at home and they need me. They have no father… I don’t know who this Red Bandit is! Please…” The officer pays her no mind, once again letting his resolute gaze loose on the crowd before him. The frame of the gallows stands imposingly behind him, casting deep shadows across the road.

Rusty takes a deep breath, downing the last of the bottle in his hand before quietly casting it aside. Al moves to shed the hat from his head, readying himself to step forward, but when he reaches his hand towards his back pocket, he finds it empty.

“It’s me,” Rusty announces in a rough voice. He clears his throat and continues: “Let her go – I’m the one you want.” He thrusts a hand up in the air, somewhere between triumphant and fatalistic; in it, the handkerchief, stolen from his dear Bandit’s pocket just moments ago.

He wonders if Al is watching him now, wonders what is to be found in his expression, but he dares not look as he takes measured steps through the crowd. Every person has their place – their moment. For once in his life, Rusty chooses not to be selfish – it is better for _all_ that Al should remain free, for there is no other who could rally such support, no one else who might inspire such devotion.

When Rusty is finally standing face-to-face with the officer, the man speaks. “What is your name?” His expression is purposefully neutral, but the glint in his eye betrays the triumph within.

“Russell Gutierrez,” Rusty answers. He adds with a smirk: “ _Officer_.”

“And you confess to being the thief and fugitive known as the Red Bandit?” There is almost a hint of disbelief in his voice.

“Yes, sir. Just as much as _you_ are a masquerading crook, abusing government power and perpetuating the oppression of the poor.” He hopes Al smiled at least a little at that one. “But maybe this answers your question better.” He tosses the crumpled handkerchief at the officer’s feet.

The man does not move, but one of his deputies stoops to pick it up, inspecting it keenly. “It’s him,” he confirms, “it’s the Red Bandit.”

The officer considers this for a brief moment, before giving his deputies a curt nod. They step up to surround Rusty, pinning his hands together behind his back. He offers no resistance as they walk him to the gallows. The wooden steps creak as he climbs them.

Standing upon his final stage, he looks around at the faces of the townspeople, expressions a mixture of shock and confusion. Only one does not meet his eye.

“Any last words?” the officer asks, victorious.

Rusty fixes his gaze upon Al, who finally, _finally_ looks back; his face is a mask of barely-concealed distress, lips parted as if to utter a silent plea: ‘Please, don’t do it.’ But it is too late.

“For the people,” Rusty speaks, eyes fixed only on one man.

 

*      *      *

 

R sits at his desk, the blank expanse of paper in front of him staring him in the face as if mocking him. Sketching is an old hobby he habitually turns to in times of stress, but he finds that whenever he moves to put pencil to paper, the only vision filling his mind’s eye is that of E. That is precisely what he wishes _not_ to think about, thank you very much; and besides, he could never do that face justice anyway – any drawing of his would only be a poor imitation, a plain butchering.

It has been five days now since they last met – five days since the documents went public – and E has not contacted him. They had made no further plans that day, but E has R’s number – _and my home address_ – so he could easily find him if he wanted to. Clearly, he does not. _Fine, whatever,_ R thinks to himself. But he is not fine, and it is the opposite of whatever.

R has been keeping up with the news coverage of the D.P.S.I. leak, which the organisation ensures is ‘under investigation’. It had caused a bit of a stir at first, with even a fair few celebrities coming forward on social media to offer their comments on the situation. But as is the sad truth of the world, interest from the general public soon waned. With not a single peep from the hacker following the initial leak, both the D.P.S.I. and executive government have spoken to discredit them, calling into question the authenticity of the divulged information. R bounces back and forth between frustrated disappointment and cynical resignation; if this is how _he_ feels, R can only imagine E’s current state of mind. _“The people will not rise,”_ he remembers bitterly.

R hears a faint knocking at his bedroom door. Before he can answer, it begins to slowly creak open. Han shuffles in, sock-laden feet making no sound on the wooden floorboards. They come to stand behind R’s chair, leaning over to hug him from behind. “Hey,” they say, “you’ve been in here all day – let’s go get some food, yeah?” Their voice is so carefully gentle – it is the tone they usually reserve for when R is having one of his _episodes_. He has not heard it in a while.

R sighs. “It’s okay, Han. I’m fine.” He can feel the arms around him soften a little in relief. “I don’t know why I’m even… _sad_. I mean, yeah, the plan didn’t really work, but it’s not even my plan anyway. And, yeah, E’s gone completely radio silent, but why shouldn’t he? We’re not _friends_ ; I was there to do a job. And I did it.” These are things R has been telling himself in his head for days now, and though he knows them to be logically true, his angst remains unmoved.

Han cuddles him closer now, tucking their head into the crook of R’s neck. “Oh, R, I’m sorry… E can be so single-minded sometimes, he doesn’t always realise what other people are feeling. For all his charm and fancy speeches, he’s really not the best at dealing with people in a _real_ way, you know? Sometimes I think… he probably never learned _how_.” Leave it to Han to cut unfalteringly to the source of R’s turmoil. When R does not say anything, Han continues: “Go talk to him. He probably needs the help right now – if there’s one thing I know about E, it’s that he’s not one to give up so easily.”

R sighs again, but takes Han’s advice. He forces himself out of his bedroom, grabs a quick sandwich, and gets on the subway. When he arrives at E’s building, Mrs DuBois is just in the process of unlocking the rusty gate; R holds it open while she picks up the grocery bags she had placed on the ground. R is calmer this time around than when he first met the woman two weeks ago, and offers to carry her bags to her door for her. She hesitates for a second before accepting the offer with a gracious nod.

They make their way up the stairs side by side at Mrs DuBois’ leisurely pace. Her groceries are surprisingly heavy and R wonders how she is able to manage them on her own. As they walk, she begins to speak: “So, you’re back again?” It takes R a moment to decipher her words due to her strong accent.

R is still wearing the hoodie-and-sunglasses combo that is customary of his trips to E’s flat; it is hardly surprising that she should recognise him. He is not sure how much Mrs DuBois actually knows about E, so he keeps his answer carefully vague: “Yeah, I guess so… I’m just coming to see… him.”

He sees Mrs DuBois smile for the first time, but it does nothing to make her look any friendlier. “Well, I’m glad you’re around. I’ve been his neighbour for a couple years now, and that boy… I don’t know what he gets up to with all his mysterious guests and late-night trips, but you seem different. I think it’d do him some good, having an upstanding young man like yourself in his life.” R does not know what to say; he is quite sure this is the first time anyone has described him as ‘upstanding’.

They eventually make it to apartment 303, where Mrs DuBois unlocks the door and R hands her groceries over. She says a simple ‘thank you’ and retreats into the flat. R turns to face the door marked ‘302’. He takes a deep breath, and knocks.

There is no answer at first, but before R raises his hand to knock again, he hears the sound of quiet footsteps and creaking floorboards. A shadow appears in the crack under the door, and stills. E seems reluctant to answer the door, and R remembers that he had not rang the intercom. “Hey, it’s me,” he says quickly. Finally, he hears the door lock click and the handle turns.

“Oh, hello R – apologies for making you wait. Please come in.” He gestures welcomingly into the apartment as always and R steps in. “Where have you been these past few days?” he asks as he shuts the door. R thinks he detects a hint of accusation in his voice.

“Where have _I_ been?” R repeats incredulously with rising annoyance, “more like: where have _you_ been? You didn’t tell me to come…”

E seemed ready to argue, but suddenly stops short with a thoughtful expression. “Didn’t I? Oh. In that case I must apologise once again – I suppose my attention was rather preoccupied… I thought we had discussed this, but perhaps that was only in my mind. When you didn’t appear, I simply assumed you’d had enough of the operation. Anyhow, it’s good you’re here – our work is far from done.” _So single-minded that he doesn’t realise what other people are feeling – Han is right on the money yet again_.

But before R can complain or call E out, or do anything else for that matter, a fresh cup of some floral-smelling tea has been promptly shoved into his hands and he is being directed to sit at the table. R looks questioningly from the mug to E, who says simply: “Caffeine-free – it’s after 6 pm.”

“Right…” R takes a slow sip – it is actually nice. _Fuck him_.

Now that they are both settled at the ‘work’ table, E launches straight into his latest scheme: “We have provided the people with the truth, but it is wasted – they don’t believe it, they barely listen. I’ve been thinking on this, and I’ve come to realise that the quickest and most effective way to hold public attention, as well as their trust, it to _engage_ with them. We must put a face to the leaks – responses, interviews, that sort of thing. They’re more vital than ever in a society so interconnected through technology. I have to… come out, as it were, show them I’m not afraid to publicly stand behind my ideals. And in the vein of interviews, I’ve identified the best outlet for the job: the Tribune. Not only are they already vaguely sympathetic to our cause, but they also have the widest reach of any such news source.” E’s eyes are shining, his tone persuasive.

R closes his eyes and sighs, rubbing his temple. “You’re saying to want to give interviews, show your face… Aren’t you a wanted criminal or something?”

E is unaffected by R’s wariness. “Well, yes… That’s precisely why they’ll be remote interviews. Even once they realise who I am, they won’t be able to find me.” When R remains unconvinced, he tacks on: “Don’t worry, I’ll take full responsibility for the leak – the planning, the hacking, _everything_ – if you want. I’ll say I worked alone.”

R’s brain is still reeling. _E is a fugitive, in hiding, and he wants to expose his face to the entire nation? Is he insane?_ R almost objects, almost volunteers to be the one to show his face instead – after all, he _did_ do all the actual hacking – but he stops himself. _That would be even dumber – not only is E by far the more compelling speaker, but if I stepped forward, all that would do is make me into a fugitive too. There is nothing to be gained from me stepping up to the gallows this time._ R tries to think of an alternative solution, a better plan, but his mental cogwheels are all gummed up, turning impossibly slowly even with his greatest efforts.

E still awaits a response, however, so R gives a reluctant nod. That night, they send out their offer to the Tribune. Even at this late hour, they receive a response almost immediately. _Okay… this is actually happening, then_.

The next day, R sets up a camera system, facing the same blank white wall against which R’s inspector ID photo was taken. He secures an untraceable connection to the Tribune and waits, fingers tapping restlessly against the mug of coffee in his hands.

E finally emerges from the bedroom, having changed for once into an outfit that is neither ‘Mr Anonymous’ nor ‘I-just-woke-up’. R nearly spills the coffee onto his lap. E is wearing a white button-up shirt and plain black tie – the same combo a boring businessman might wear to work, but he leaves the top button undone and the tie slightly loose around his neck. On top of that, he has a red waistcoat; upon closer inspection, the rich fabric carries an intricate design of roses and butterflies – an interesting choice, especially considering that it is combined with a row of garish gold buttons. His feet are clad in heavy black boots – unnecessary, given that the camera will only shoot from the waist up – and his long hair is pulled back into a neat bun. All in all, he looks like some strange amalgamation of Victor Frankenstein and My Chemical Romance. _And yet he still looks amazing…_

At a loss for words and crawling with anxiety, R once again resorts to talking complete shit: “I’ve got everything set up – finally ready to film that sextape of ours.” It is a joke, but there is no trace of humour in his voice.

To his credit, E does not react with terror like he did the first time R said this, probably used to his antics by now. Instead, he only shakes his head almost fondly and picks up his ‘script’ from the table, striding back and forth across the room as he reads it over.

It is nine minutes to the hour – nine minutes until E goes live. E appears entirely calm, coolly confident as paces and prepares; meanwhile, R’s stomach is in knots. He checks everything again and again, examining settings and fiddling with components, though he already knows them all to be in perfect order. By all logic, he should be fine – this is E’s decision, and E alone will face the consequences. R thought his brain would be able to understand that, that he would be okay, and yet… _Dammit,_ he thinks, _why’d you have to go and make me care about you?_ R is filled with dread, and it is all on E’s behalf – though nothing has gone disastrously thus far, R has a feeling that E’s judgment is not always to be trusted. After all, he has now seen E die no fewer than twice, and watched him fail even more frequently – in his dreams, granted, but still.

With just over two minutes before the big moment, the sound of E’s pacing stops and R feels a warm hand clamp to his shoulder. He looks over to see E standing at his side. His face is composed in an expression of calm concern, but the sea of his eyes is tempestuous. “R,” he says, “don’t worry, alright? It should be completely safe – I trust that you’ve set everything up entirely securely.” This only sparks further panic in R, and E’s eyes widen in horror. “No, no- Of course it’s all fine… Like I said, I won’t mention you at all… I- I assure you, the Tribune is a respectable source – it will all remain under complete control. We-” He continues to ramble vaguely comforting phrases, growing increasingly flustered as he speaks, which only serves to make R not only anxious but now confused as well.

With barely fifteen seconds to go, E stops speaking. He looks R straight in the eyes and frowns as though wrestling over something internally. His gaze is intent, eyes full of un-verbalised sentiments; the look _feels_ enquiring, but R does not know what the question is. He only furrows his brow, not understanding.

Finally, E draws a sharp breath as if to speak. But he does not. The kiss is so sudden, and so brief, that it is over before R can fully appreciate the moment. Tearing his gaze away abruptly, E turns. Without another word, he sits himself before the camera and goes live.


	6. What Of Us?

What a strange week it has been – only a few days ago, E and R were anonymous whistle-blowers and R was staring at a blank page wondering if he would ever see the other man again; now, they are both stationed in R’s living room – R sprawled over the sofa and E sitting in the single armchair – as they draft their next big media appearance.

It turns out that, despite E’s deep-seated activist tendencies, he had never conquered the most influential platform of all – Twitter. “In my defence, I was never the person in charge of our group’s social media presence,” he said when R had looked at him with profound disbelief. At the moment, R has his laptop open on Apollo’s brand-new Twitter account, retweeting links and replying to mentions – he had realised yesterday that it would be best for him to run this side of operations, lest E tweet yet another 34-part rant about the futility of attempted ethical consumption under capitalism. _Who knew Twitter would be the one thing he’s bad at,_ R muses, _he didn’t even post a single meme!_

Apollo’s official online presence is not the only development in recent days, but it _is_ the only one that R is able to wrap his head around. Since the pre-interview… _incident_ a week ago, E has not spoken a single word on the subject, and R is having a hard time figuring out if that is merely a symptom of his inability to talk feelings or if he is actively pretending it never happened. R is bad enough at expressing his own emotions as it is, and every time he works up the courage to broach the topic, E hits him full-force with his latest plan or interview argument, thoroughly derailing him. By now, it feels as though the uncertainty, the anxiety, is eating him alive.

The cynical voice in R’s head keeps telling him: _he doesn’t like you, that was a pity kiss, he regrets it_ , and R is inclined to believe that. Yet, every few minutes, R steals a glance across the room and happens to catch E’s gaze, and those steely blue eyes will soften just enough in that unreadable face of his to make R feel hopeful all over again.

After about an hour of working – working on E’s end, pining-disguised-as-working on R’s – Han emerges from their bedroom and practically skips over to the two of them, face lit up in a sunny smile. “Hey guys!” they announce, “wanna come flower arranging with me? It’ll be fun!”

“Uh… no thanks, Han,” R replies, “I’m good – have fun though.”

E declines as well, with a polite smile and an explanation of how busy he is.

Han pouts for a few seconds, but it is gone quickly. “Okay- good luck with your work. I’ll bring you back a bouquet!” they say, giving their friends one final wave before exiting the apartment.

Just a few moments later, as if he had been holding back for fear of being overheard by Han of all people, E speaks up: “R – what do you have to report on current public opinion from your examination of social media?” That is the most unnecessarily eloquent way anyone has ever asked ‘what’s happening on Twitter?’, and R’s brain has to take a second to process it before giving a response.

“Well, they’re definitely… engaging. To be honest, most replies are trolls and memes, but we’ve gained like ten thousand followers so far today, so that’s good. Although, if your profile pic was actually a picture of _you_ , that number would probably be at least double.” R pauses for a moment, steeling himself to deliver the less-good part of his report. “But… it seems like the proportion of people who genuinely support the cause _and_ actually believe us is… pretty low. I guess the government smear campaign worked… I don’t think the D.P.S.I. is going anywhere anytime soon.”

E’s only reaction to this information is rubbing his forehead and furrowing his brow. He is silent for a while, before grudgingly admitting: “That’s the same indication I’ve been getting from official new sources. I think you’re right – at this rate, the leak is unlikely to hold any lasting political impact.” Despite this disheartening reality, in true E fashion, he refuses to sit idle, instead drawing himself up in his seat as he is prone to do when preparing to announce a new plan. He speaks with conviction: “I believe we must expose more documents, more correspondences regarding different operations… Sometimes there is engagement through repetition and credibility through volume.”

“Expose more documents,” R states flatly. “How exactly do you plan on doing that? They haven’t found you… _yet_ , but they know who you are now _and_ they’ve already been hacked once – they’ll be much harder to get a second time.”

E appears troubled, staring off unseeingly into some random corner of the room, his mouth pulled into a slight frown as he considers this. When he speaks, it is quiet and more to himself than in response to R. “I have a few contacts who may be of use… Perhaps I should reach out to them…”

“What about me?” R asks, dragging E’s attention back from his thoughts, “I mean, I helped before: hacking, broadcasting, sneaking into the office… Remember that? I _can_ do it. I know I was scared before, but… I wanna help you.” _Because I like you, and I admire your conviction, and I don’t know how many more times I can watch you fail before it breaks my heart._ He does not say that last part out loud, of course.

E’s face is inscrutable at the best of times, but R has grown accustomed to it – in the infinitesimal movements of his expression, R deciphers a reaction most closely comparable to _fear_.

“No, R,” E speaks, “actually… you’re right. Like you said yourself: the D.P.S.I. will be on the lookout following the leak. It’s… too risky.” R cannot believe what he is hearing. _Risky?,_ he wants to say, _since when has that been any concern to yours? And since when do you ever change your mind? Didn’t you just say you wanted to leak more documents?_ E continues: “We must… make use of our platform, rally the people. If we inspire others to leak similar documents within their abilities-”

“So you want _everyone_ to get arrested?” R’s irritation is rising now and he does not even attempt to hold back his accusatory tone.

“They would be taking on the risks willingly.”

“Oh, so _they’re_ allowed to take risks but _I_ can’t?” R’s retort is followed by a resounding silence. The gaze E fixes R with now is challenging, a plain warning to let the subject drop and concede, but R does not back down. _Why is E being like this?_ He cannot believe it. _Why is he so stubborn and self-contradictory all of a sudden, when he’s usually so eloquent and carefully considered?_

Eventually, E leans back in the armchair as if defeated. He draws a long breath before speaking: “Do you remember the photo – the framed one on my dresser?” R has heard E angry and impassioned, has heard him polite and lightly amused. But his voice now is subdued, grave; R feels a sudden chill creep up on him. He is unsure whether he should be denying having seen the photo, but before he decides upon a response, E carries on: “It’s alright – I know you’ve seen it, and I’m not upset. I know you harboured no ill intentions, just as when Han happened upon my collection of identity documents years ago.”

_He knew?_ If R is being honest, he is only partly surprised. Either way, he nods. “Yeah, I remember it,” he replies, keeping his tone carefully neutral, unsure of where this is going.

“The other person in the photo is… someone very important to me. We met when we were teenagers. My family was wealthy, and at the time, I was ignorant, spoiled, selfish… the type of person we condemn for being implicit in the oppression of those less fortunate in society. She was… on the other side of the fence, as it were. She forced me to confront the reality I had ignored up to that point, and she pushed me to seek change. She taught me everything I know about my… job.” E’s eyes grow increasingly stormy as he shares his tale, and R gets the distinct impression that every word out of his mouth is agonisingly painful to speak.

“She’s dead,” E says bluntly, yet still with a reverence that reverberates through the room, “because of something _I_ did. She is gone because of an operation _I_ wanted to carry out. I knew how dangerous it would be, but I was angry and reckless and too eager to prove myself. I begged her to help, and she trusted me enough to do it. She shouldn’t have. She’s dead. And it’s _my_ fault.” E drops his remorseful gaze to his hands clasped upon his lap. In that moment: pale, motionless, and dejected, he appears a spectre. Eventually he shuts his eyes with a sigh, bowing his head slowly. “Her name was Elia.”

_Elia_.

“E,” R states, and E nods without opening his eyes. “I’m sorry.” R knows that is not what he wants to hear, but what else can he say? R understands what E is trying to tell him through this divulgence of his past, and though this hardly feels like an appropriate moment to continue arguing, he simply cannot accept E’s point. “I’m sorry for what happened to your friend, and I get that you don’t want a… repeat of that. But just because she lost her life for your operation doesn’t mean that I will. And even if I did, that would be _my_ decision, and I have a right to make it. Freedom and rights – isn’t that what you’re always talking about?”

E appears unsettled, and it takes him a moment to respond. He speaks uncharacteristically slowly, as if deliberating his word choice as he speaks. “Of course I respect your decisions, I just… I’m _concerned_ that you may not be thinking clearly. You might not be making choices for the right… reasons.”

“ _Excuse me_?” Although E did not say it outright, R can think of only one thing he may be referring to. “Are you _actually_ saying that I’m only doing this because I _like_ you? That my judgment is clouded or some shit!?” The worst part is, it is not even all that far from the truth, not that R is willing to admit that anytime soon.

E continues patiently: “Resentment, passion, _love_ … We cannot let these things lead us astray in our quest for liberty. Emotions can lead us into actions that are not the best for ourselves… or indeed, for those around us… I’ve realised over the years, that we cannot let these irrational impulses guide us in our endeavours. We must keep our sights clear…” He speaks in a steady rhythm as though reciting a mantra.

“Bull. Shit,” R accuses, “how can you even sit there say that with a straight face? ‘Emotions lead us astray’? Please. You _do_ care about people, and you care about _me_. Admit it – that’s why you don’t want me to take risks, but you’re okay with other people doing it. Hypocrite.” The venom in R’s words surprises even himself, and E does not meet his eyes, gaze fixed on the scratched corner of the coffee table in front of him. He even appears ashamed.

E has no reply, and the silence drags. The sudden confidence that had overcome R in the moment quickly withers, and the reality of the past few minutes descends upon him. He is mortified at what he has said, although E’s reaction suggests that he was not that far off the mark. All at once, E’s expression, that beautiful face, and the backlit gold-tinged silhouette of his downcast form, are too overwhelming to look at. R can feel the anxiety bubbling within him, rising, and he is certain that if E were to argue another word, he would be launched into a full-on panic attack. Without speaking another word and not looking back, R scrambles off the sofa and marches out the front door of his own flat, his only thought being the need to put distance between himself and E as quickly as possible. The slamming door echoes down the hallway.

R finds a quiet spot in the small private court shared between the block of apartment buildings. There is no one else in it at the moment, and R sits on the edge of the fountain, focusing on the steady trickling of the water to calm himself. The crisp fresh air helps clear his head at first, but it soon becomes too cold and R curses himself for not grabbing a jacket on the way out. _Fuck – my keys were in that jacket._

Once the worst of it has subsided, R thinks of E left alone in the flat with a cringe. It would be too awkward, too embarrassing to return now, so he wraps his arms around himself to brace against the icy breeze. _Damn, how did things escalate so quickly?_ , he thinks to himself, _not just today, but over the past few weeks…_ Not long ago, E was only a beautiful and mysterious stranger, recruiting R for an operation he did not particularly want to be a part of. He had only agreed, in the end, because of a dream – admittedly not the soundest form of reasoning. Over the weeks, R came to genuinely care for E, to worry about him, and what began from a dream had turned into something more tangible. But… E was right – R was never doing this for the cause per se. In fact, he had known from the outset that it was unlikely to amount to any real change.

He thinks back on E’s behaviour in the past hour. _E is terrible at meaningful communication_ , R reminds himself, _he can’t bear for anyone else he cares about to get hurt for his cause_ _–_ _he just doesn’t know how to admit it._ R sits there, contemplating and shivering for a long while, until a soft voice rouses him from his thoughts.

“Hey, what’re you doing out here? How about we go back upstairs, yeah?” It is Han, wearing a mask of gentle sympathy and holding a bouquet of pink amaranth and baby’s breath in one hand. They must see something of concern in R’s expression, for they immediately throw their arms around their friend in a heartfelt hug. It is warm and flower-scented, and instantly makes R feel a little more at ease.

“Let’s go inside,” R mumbles into Han’s shoulder, “it’s fucking freezing out here.”

They make their way back up to their apartment together, not exchanging another word. Han unlocks the door and R follows them into the flat, his eyes drawn automatically to the armchair by the window. It is empty. E is gone.

 

*        *        *

 

_Republic of Venice, 1348_

“Going so soon?” Renato teases, watching from his lounging position on the bed as Emilio dons his shirt and that silky red jacket he loves so much. “Out through the window once again, leaving me cold and lonely in my bed…”

“It’s hardly cold,” Emilio speaks, his face turned away as he fastens his golden locks in a ribbon with nimble movements of his elegant fingers. He can almost be said to glow in the soft afternoon light, falling on him through the stated window to his side. He returns to steal one last kiss before his departure. “And you can be certain I will be equally as lonely in your absence.”

As Emilio disappears, Renato falls back on his pillows with a sigh. _Young love,_ he muses, _is truly as joyous and as heart wrenching as they say._ He had met the young physician at one of his father’s famous society parties – dreadfully boring apart from being a wonderful opportunity for stealing copious amounts of high-grade liquor. Dreadfully boring, that is, until he met _him_. He still vividly recalls the moment he first caught sight of Emilio Alessandro Vitali, standing at the top of the staircase in that red jacket of his, set aglow by candlelight like a religious figure in a stained-glass window. _What person could see such a sight and ever forget?_

They sit on the balcony one day, legs dangling over the canal below and delighting in the taste of fresh olive bread acquired from the market earlier that morning. But there is something different about Emilio today; it seems as though that tiny furrow, which appears between the brows on that otherwise lineless face whenever he is reminded of something distasteful, is here to stay.

“Milo,” Renato speaks to pull the man’s attention from where he is gazing intently into the rippling water of the canal, “something troubles you today. Tell me what it is.”

The man does not turn his head, but voices an answer: “The plague takes countless new lives each day. In my work I see the bodies of those claimed by the Black Death, discoloured and misshapen by the ailment that came to end their lives; yet in the evenings I come here, to you, and find the calamity hardly an afterthought.” Renato looks as though he plans to interject, but Emilio carries on firmly. “I do not lay the fault squarely at your feet, my love. But it troubles me that those in power may carry on in revelries and merriment, as they condemn entire quarters of our city to death.”

Renato feels a profound unease descend upon him with every word Emilio speaks. “I’m sorry, Milo. I had heard of the plague but had no notion of its extent. Hearing this, I wish to help, but I am no physician.”

“No,” Emilio says with renewed vigour, finally turning abruptly to face the other man, “but your father is on the Council, is he not? It is _they_ who have decreed those poor and infected to be left alone to perish. He will not listen to us physicians, but his own _son_? I implore you: beg your father reconsider the Council’s policy.”

Renato wants to say that he has never been his father’s favourite, that his words are unlikely to achieve much, but seeing Emilio ablaze with the fire of optimism, he finds himself unable to go through with it. “I will,” he promises.

These are the first words to fall from Emilio’s lips following their next greeting kiss: “Have you spoken with your father yet?”

“No, not yet,” Renato answers, face twisting into a slight frown. Emilio does not notice, however, as he goes about removing his jacket and laying it over the back of the closest sitting chair.

“I beseech you to do so at the earliest opportunity; the situation worsens daily,” he says solemnly, stepping up to hold both of Renato’s hands in his own.

Something about this exchange sits wrongly in Renato’s stomach, and he cannot help voicing his worries: “Milo, please do not take offence, but I must ask – are you only courting me for the purpose of swaying my father’s political attitudes?” The more he considers it, the more convincing the evidence becomes: he first met Emilio at his father’s party mere days after the council’s decision, and the handsome young physician had taken an immediate interest in him, a man who compares less than favourably to himself in almost every way, certainly knowing to which family he belongs.

Emilio appears disturbed by the accusation – disbelief perhaps, or guilt? In any case, he squeezes Renato’s hands a little tighter. “I assure you, my love, that no such thing is true – do not disparage yourself so.” Renato cannot say that he is truly convinced, but allows himself to be pulled into an embrace anyhow.

“Let me show you something,” Emilio says when they finally break apart, grasping Renato’s hand and bringing him to the window they both know so well. He raises a hand to point out, over the setting sun, a sector of the city to which Renato has admittedly never been. “See those buildings over there? The council has declared that whole region, and many others, to be cordoned off. Why? Because a few citizens have fallen ill. Those who are healthy may not leave, and even physicians are barred from entering. Ren… I hear they plan to burn it to the ground.”

Renato’s head snaps to face Emilio, whose sorrowful gaze remains fixed on the horizon. “I will speak with my father tonight.”

Renato does as he has promised, conveying Emilio’s concerns as his own, with as much conviction as he can muster in the demeaning face of his father. The man only sighs as though his son were troubling him with a petty squabble. “Renato,” he explains slowly as one would speak to a child, “the cordon is for the safety of the Venetian people. We cannot let people leave the contaminated regions – they may be infected and yet exhibit no symptoms. Who, in that case, do you suppose would be the first to fall? Our brave physicians, perhaps?” His father gives him a knowing look.

Renato was ready to argue the point further but that last sentence gives him pause, and he does not stop his father from leaving when the man announces: “Excuse me – I have a meeting with Councilman Giunta.”

“I’m sorry, my love,” Renato tells Emilio when next they meet, “I tried my hardest, but my father could not be budged.”

Emilio bows his head in sorrow as he sits at Renato’s writing desk. “I was afraid of this outcome – the Councilman is a stubborn man.” Renato is relieved that Emilio looks to have accepted the news so easily, but the man soon speaks again. “It appears I will have no help from the Council in my endeavours, but still my conscience dictates I must do all that I can.”

“Milo? What are you saying?” Renato’s fingers grip tightly onto the edge of the bed where he sits, as though that is necessary to steady himself.

“Whether the law is on my side or not, I must do my part to help our people.” Emilio rises now, his expression resolute and accented by the burning sunset casting long austere shadows across his face. He stands still for a moment, yet another mural in the church of Renato’s mind, before he makes his way to his window exit.

“Please,” comes Renato’s feeble voice, “please don’t do it. You would help our people, but what of yourself? What of me? Of _us_?”

Emilio casts a final look into the bedroom, from where he already sits upon the windowsill, legs dangling in the evening air outside. “I’m sorry,” he says, and slips away.

Renato knows not what becomes of his beloved physician. He never again climbed through that window, never again attended a society party, never again sat on the balcony with the glow of the sunset igniting his golden hair. _Young love is truly as joyous and as heart wrenching as they say._ Renato wonders which is worse: being claimed victim by the Black Death or execution by the polizia. Although he knows Emilio would not have minded either, the question haunts Renato to the end of his days.


	7. At The Edge Of The Garden

_The Heart of Rome, 1st Century AD_

Germanus has always been a slave; he was born into it, as so many are. Working for the Sidonius family is the only life he has ever known, and it is certainly not as bad as it easily could be. The matriarch is kind, the three daughters vain but not cruel. The elder son no longer lives in the family domus and the younger is still only a boisterous child. And the patriarch – Publius Sidonius Magnus himself? He is often angry, it is true, but so busy in matters of both state and pleasure that he is occupied more often than not.

The house slaves of the Sidonius family are many: those who work the kitchens, those who tend to the women, those who care for the children, those who clean the house, and finally those who keep the grounds. Germanus himself is mostly in the latter category. Most, like him, have known no other life; they look upon their existence with relief – there are so many who have it much worse, after all. What is slavery when it shields one from the torments of poverty? As he hoists pails of water for the quenching of his mistress’ prized garden, Germanus spares a moment of thought to gratefulness – that he is _here_ , and not in the mines, in the slums, in the gladiatorial arena…

Germanus and two of his fellow slaves are between duties, making their presence as small as possible at the edge of the foyer, when their master returns home. They ready themselves to spring into some semblance of action, but it proves unnecessary as Sidonius is entirely occupied by conversation with a guest. “It has always been a pleasure doing business with you, Porcius,” the master is saying. Porcius. Germanus knows that name – this guest is one of Rome’s wealthiest and most esteemed slave dealers. Germanus is prepared to lower his eyes, lest he make the mistake of catching either man’s gaze, but that was before he noticed the man at Porcius’ side.

At first, Germanus cannot be sure he is a man at all: he is elegant and slight, the delicate features of his unscarred face rivalling the beauty of Venus herself and the waves of his unfastened hair trickling down his shoulders like spun gold. In fact, he is closer to boy than to man. He wears an expression Germanus has seen only in temples, carved into the righteous faces of Mars and the goddess Bellona. So entranced he is by this image, that only upon the boy’s reluctant movements to stand beside Sidonius does Germanus notice the leather binding his hands behind his back. He would never have assumed – the boy is a slave! And it appears a valuable one at that, given Porcius’ decision to pay a home visit for the transaction.

The boy maintains a defiant frown as his new master claps a hand to his shoulder; Sidonius ignores this and smiles, presenting an expression of true delight the likes of which has never been directed at a slave of his before. Germanus cannot blame him – he himself is blessed simply to be in the boy’s divine presence, let alone holding him in his literal possession to be subject to his every whim. At that moment, the boy’s fiery gaze finds Germanus – well, not Germanus specifically, but more likely the three slaves all huddled together in the corner – and the heat is too much to take. Germanus lowers his gaze, silently picking up his tools and returning to his chores.

Over time, Germanus learns the new slave’s name to be Aelius. However, that is essentially all he comes to know, for he is rarely if ever in the boy’s presence. As Germanus toils away on the grounds, Aelius is called to the master’s chambers to attend to whatever he may require. He is even absent at the slaves’ meal times more often than not. “I bet he’s with his precious master, probably getting fed beef and honey – fresh fruits too,” the slaves gossip. Germanus is unsure how to feel about their envies. The one time he hears Aelius speak, to answer a direct question from the master himself, his voice is not soft as one may expect from his appearance. It is melodious, yes, but in a way that holds more steel than satin. It is also heavily accented, Aelius’ mouth forming around stilted syllables of Latin only with obvious effort on his part.

One day, Germanus makes his way to his favourite hiding spot – a nook by the garden which is not easily seen from the rest of the house thanks to a conveniently placed column – only to find it already occupied. By the master’s own favourite, no less. Aelius’ eyes widen in surprise at Germanus’ arrival, then he turns almost apologetic. “Sorry,” he speaks slowly and with some difficulty, “you can sit.” He slides along a pace and gestures to the space formed beside him.

Germanus sits without comment. He resolutely does not look in Aelius’ direction; the two of them are pressed shoulder to shoulder in the limited space, which is distressing enough on its own. He worries whether the boy can hear his heart hammering away as well as he can himself, but Aelius’ voice soon returns to distract him. “Your name is Germanus, yes?” Germanus has never liked his own name, but hearing it spoken in Aelius’ unique inflection, he gains a sudden new appreciation for it. “I see you taking water – you are strong, hardworking.”

“I- um… thanks?” Germanus is the one in this conversation actually fluent in Latin, and yet he is also the one stumbling over his words.

Aelius continues. “Where are you from? What is your… story?” He chooses the last word with some apprehension, and though the expression is non-standard, Germanus understands his meaning.

“I have no… story,” Germanus answers, still refusing to look at the man beside him for fear it may be too much for his already-fluttering heart to handle, “I was born in Rome. I’ve served Sidonius… my whole life. Or at least, as long as I can remember.” Germanus gets the feeling that Aelius does not understand all of his words, but he seems to grasp the general idea at least. “What about you?”

“I come from Gaul,” is the reply, “the Romans came, and they… _took_ my family. They brought me here.” That he does not know the word ‘kill’ does not dampen the sorrow of his statement.

“I’m sorry Aelius, truly.” He knows his apology means nothing, but he is compelled to say it nonetheless.

The boy lowers his head to his own knees now, golden tresses falling across Germanus’ lap like spilt wine on dirt. “They took my family,” he repeats, his voice muffled, “then they took my name also. I am Aelius now, they say. I hate it.” Shrunken in grief, the boy’s age becomes apparent – he is no older than sixteen.

“What’s your real name?” Germanus’ voice is gentle now, afraid that anything more could cause this damaged boy to break completely.

“I… I will not speak it here. I will not dirty it.”

“Very well,” Germanus replies, placing a comforting hand gently to his new friend’s back, “then I will call you… Apollo.”

“Apollo?” he asks, turning his head to meet Germanus’ gaze before he can even think to escape it again. The boy has not been crying, but perhaps he has come close. “What does it mean?”

“Apollo…” Germanus answers, finally peering into the churning depths of those ocean-blue eyes and finding it impossible that he was once so intimidated by them, “Apollo is music, art, and poetry; he’s a shepherd and a healer and a protector of refugees and the young. He brings knowledge and hope – he is light.”

Apollo understands enough of the words to shake his head slowly. “No,” he objects, voice steady as always, “I am not… that. I am no Apollo.”

“Perhaps not,” Germanus concedes, his hand on Apollo’s back moving to grasp his shoulder in assurance, “but maybe you need him. This way, he will always be near.”

Days slip into weeks, and life at the Sidonius household carries on in the same fashion as it always has, except for the fact that Germanus’ private hiding place now becomes shared with another. He finds Apollo ever eager to see him, to speak with him, and though Germanus revels in the divine light he casts, he cannot help the twinge of anguish at the thought that their friendship is borne in part out of Apollo’s profound loneliness. The other slaves do not acknowledge him, whether from intimidation or envious bitterness or some combination of the two. It makes Germanus angry and selfishly grateful all at once.

“I know what they say about me,” Apollo says one afternoon, knees pulled up close to his chest as he watches a starling pecking at the earth in the courtyard, “they say the master likes me, that I am his favourite, that he gives me nice food and wine.” Germanus cannot deny this, and so Apollo continues fervently in his laboured cadence which still grows more fluent by the day: “But is that really better? Is it better to eat meat or honey sometimes, if you must… _serve_ that man?” Both of them know what ‘serve’ means in this situation; there is no need for elaboration.

“It’s different for you,” Germanus responds as he feels the fabric of Apollo’s tunic between his fingers, formed from a fine linen not afforded to other slaves, “you were once free. But, _us_? This is our only life. We have different… priorities.”

Still Apollo scowls, watching the starling which has now approached and is almost at his feet. “I hate this. I hate this life – it is not _right_! The worst is… I cannot believe that the slaves do not stay together. They talk about each other, gossiping, not… _trusting_. Can they not _see_?” He finally turns to face Germanus now, but his eyes appear far away and his voice when he speaks again is small: “I am sorry I whine – I just… want to leave. More than anything.” Germanus does not need to ask to know that Apollo sees his home now; he drops the fabric between his fingers in exchange for Apollo’s hand – another empty comfort, but that is all he can offer in moments such as this. The starling takes off in a flutter and he watches it disappear over the wall.

The following day, Apollo is not to be found at their customary spot. That is not unusual on its own, as he is often otherwise occupied with his duties, but when a new day brings more of the same, Germanus’ heart turns cold with dread. His fears are confirmed when, at the sunset hour, the foyer erupts in commotion with the arrival of the police. Germanus peeks at them from behind a column, not daring to approach any closer. They have brought Apollo back, bruised and bloodied and collapsed on his knees on the icy marble floor.

Sidonius himself is there as well, fuelled with a rage that Germanus has never seen before. He bends to grab Apollo roughly by the jaw, spitting words that Germanus is too far away to hear. But through it all, Apollo does not flinch; it is as though the crimson staining his tunic is someone else’s, the purpled patches on his skin nothing more than a harmless covering of dirt. He merely glares resolutely into his master’s eyes, perhaps hoping to wound him through intent alone. Germanus finds the scene too excruciating to watch, and silently slips away, back to the garden.

Early the next morning, Germanus is sitting at his usual location when he is approached silently by a freshly bathed Apollo. But under the glistening golden hair and the crisp white tunic, the gashes and bruises still scream out to be noticed on that previously unmarked skin – Germanus is certain that a number of them were not there when he saw him the evening prior. Apollo sits wordlessly, and Germanus wraps his arms around the boy in equivalent silence. Neither speaks for a long while, Apollo’s face hidden in the other’s shoulder. Germanus feels a wetness seep through the wool of his tunic but it is out of his power to do anything except hold the trembling boy in his arms until his anguish has at last been spent.

“Oh Apollo,” he laments with a sigh, as he strokes a hand up and down his back in a soothing gesture, “what have you done?” Apollo’s breathing has evened out now, but his expression is still buried in the crook of Germanus’ neck. “I know you wish to leave, but you must realise that escape from the heart of Rome is… well, it’s impossible. I’m sorry.”

Apollo turns his head without moving from his position, leaving his face a mere thumb’s length from Germanus’ own, wine-scented breath washing over him in waves. Although Apollo has been weeping, there is no sign of weakness now as he pins Germanus with an uncompromising stare, at once icy and burning with intensity. “Run away with me.” It is close to a whisper, yet still manages to knock the air from Germanus’ lungs.

He is too shaken for words at first, only able to slowly shake his head from side to side. “No,” he finally replies in a hoarse croak, “I can’t. _We_ can’t… Listen to me – you don’t understand… We will never succeed. If we were in the outer lands, maybe, but here? In Rome? I… We…” His words dissipate uselessly into the morning air.

But Apollo is insistent, intent. His mouth half-forms around silent words, before he seems to remember that Germanus will not understand them. He frowns, and utters the following sentences with visible frustration. “Run away with me – we can leave at night, go far away… Do you not think about the life you could have? If you were… free? You… We… I am not good with your Latin words, but _please_. Let us go. Together. _Please_.” He has grasped both of Germanus’ hands in his own, and his skin is feverish as if stoked by the fire of his conviction.

Germanus only continues to shake his head, going so far as to briefly close his eyes for respite from Apollo’s insistent gaze. “Apollo, we can’t…” It almost causes him pain to speak it. “I’ve told you – there is no hope for escape, and what is more, I… I don’t _wish_ to leave. This… is my life. Do you understand me? _Why_ – why do you insist I join you?”

Apollo gives no immediate reply. His gaze drops to their hands in apparent shame, and his voice when he finally answers is impossibly small, so much so that Germanus struggles to hear it. “He said he will hurt you,” he reveals, “if _I_ run, he hurts _you_. _Please_. Run away with me.” He looks up once again, his countenance marred not only by physical bruises but also a profound agony that is unbearable to look upon.

Something about the boy’s desperate pleas and his blazing conviction make refusing him an impossibility. So, with a deep unease, and unwavering certainty that the venture is doomed to failure, Germanus goes with him. No surprise crosses his mind when they are inevitably caught, though it would be a lie to say he was not at all disappointed. True to his words, Sidonius leaves Apollo entirely untouched; he is instead made to watch as Germanus is put brutally under the lash again and again, until his vision fades at the edges, he loses all sensation but that of the blistering of his back, and he is kneeling in a puddle of his own blood.

When it is all over, Germanus huddles in the corner of the room, wincing at the soreness of his healing wounds. Apollo approaches gingerly, forgoing his place beside Germanus and instead kneeling before him, head bowed in shame.

Germanus attempts a weak laugh, but it manifests only as a sigh. “I told you… it wouldn’t work.” Even drawing upon all his strength, the words are barely more than a murmur.

Apollo indicates no acknowledgment of Germanus’ words, merely prostrates himself before him and speaks into the tile: “I am sorry. I… I had no right. You told me and I did not listen. Every wound on you was made by _me_. I am sorry.”

In the morning, they sit in silence watching the unrelenting rise of the sun from their place at the edge of the garden. The brightness hurts Germanus’ tired eyes and he turns instead to look upon the boy beside him. The soft light of dawn ignites the golden locks of his hair, caresses the planes of his youthful face; it should be beautiful, but it is not. All his fire, all his passion has deserted him. It is like looking at a corpse.

Germanus lifts his weary arm to take Apollo’s hand in his own. It is cold.

 

*        *        *

 

R finally drags himself out of bed just after midday. He was not sleeping – in fact, he has been awake since around nine-thirty; it had just taken him a while to build up the energy required to actually get up. He shuffles over to the bathroom, brushing his teeth in a zombified state, refusing to look in the mirror and face whatever mess has become of his appearance.

He eventually makes it to the kitchen, where a plate is waiting for him on the counter. On it is a slice of cold buttered toast and a handful of grapes, and next to it sits a glass of fresh orange juice. _Han – what did I do to deserve you?_

R picks up his breakfast, stepping across the empty flat to flop on the sofa. As he munches half-heartedly on the bread, he reaches for the remote and switches on the television. The screen lights up on a news channel, where they are currently doing a panel discussion segment on Apollo. _Just my luck_ , R thinks bitterly. He would have changed the channel right then, but they have just put up a video of E – a clip from his latest interview – and R suddenly finds himself unable to go through with it.

E is looking directly into the camera – through it, and straight into the back of R’s brain. He is against that blank white wall again, decked out in red and black with his long hair pulled back; R can almost hear the thud of those unnecessary heavy boots, can almost smell the mingling scents of tea and coffee in the stuffy air. E has got that defiant glint in his eyes that appears when he is challenged on a topic for which he knows he has a superior argument. R can feel the fire even through the screen.

“This is not a question of political grudges or whether climate change is real,” he is saying, the slight static in the audio taking nothing away from his ardent conviction, “it is an issue of citizen’s rights as put forth in our nation’s constitution, and it is an issue of the rampant corruption festering within the heart of our government. But for the record, climate change _is_ real. Self-serving traitors like those implicated in these documents are precisely _why_ it continues to be a problem despite the availability for years now of sustainable alternatives, harming not only billions of people, but also the economy that you lot claim to treasure so dearly.”

R smiles a little as he recalls hearing pretty much this exact speech – at least two or three times, in fact – as E sat at his table, teacup in hand, or as he paced the room dramatically, his flowing locks almost glowing as they caught what little sun made its way through the tiny barred window.

R is lost in reverie for a second; when he tunes back in to what is happening on the television, E’s face is gone. Instead, one of the panellists, an old man with an angry face, is saying: “I think it’s rich for him to be preaching rights and the constitution, when he’s out there breaking laws and stealing private documents.”

“Exactly,” a second panellist, an alleged ‘legal expert’, steps in, “although I personally have doubts about the authenticity of the documents in the first place – the consensus from most sources is that they’re fake – in which case he could actually be looking at charges of forgery and libel as well.”

“Right, right,” the man speaks again, “as far as I can see, the only traitor here is Apollo. He’s just as bad as Edward Snowden – he needs to be identified and apprehended as quickly as possible, before he can spread his problematic ideas any further!”

The third panellist gets ready to speak up, but R switches off the television before he has to listen to yet another insult be hurled in E’s direction. The sudden silence leaves a distant ringing in his ears.

_These so-called ‘experts’ are obviously being paid to say these things – can’t people tell?_ R thinks angrily to himself, _where’s their integrity?_ Then he almost smiles, because that sounds almost exactly like something E would say.

E, stern and logical though he is, is an eternal optimist, a group which is all too often mistaken. Sure, his plan worked – they got the files and released them into the world – but his reason for doing so in the first place, the effect he hoped they would produce on the masses? Nothing. E is failing. _He must be used to it by now_. Judging by the snippet R has just seen on the news – not even to mention social media, which R has been adamantly avoiding – E seems to have become Public Enemy Number One. _It’s strange how that is_ , R ponders, _all people do is complain about the government, yet the instant someone hacks a government agency and exposes its actual wrongdoings, they’re suddenly blind to its faults and he becomes a ‘terrorist’._ The worst part is, E is now in very real danger of arrest… or worse.

R stands up suddenly from the sofa, fuelled by some kind of universal bitterness; he picks up his empty dishes and walks to the kitchen sink. The energy of resentment is not enough to make him properly do the washing up, but he turns on the tap and rinses both the plate and the glass, setting them on the rack to dry. That is more than he has done for the past few days.

R stands and stares blankly into the empty sink. _I wonder how E is feeling right now,_ he thinks to himself, _I wonder how long it’ll take before he gives up_. Part of him thinks that it will be never, that E will retain that righteous optimism up until the very moment he is gunned down by the firing squad – metaphorically, of course. Hopefully. Part of him cannot see E giving up whatsoever: when they come for him, he will disappear and reappear under a different guise, or go out in a blaze of glory. But… There is another part of R that is still troubled by his latest dream from two nights ago: E was only a scared little boy. All the fire in his eyes had burnt out; his hand was so cold…

R scowls at the metal drain, aware of a vague anger within him – directed at whom, he could not say – and an even stronger urge to cry. _No! I don’t want to deal with this right now – I don’t want to feel this._ R eyes the fridge to his side.

_Fuck it._

He grabs a bottle.


	8. Morning Sun

When R finds himself crossing under that rusty iron gate, it feels just like the first time – his palms are sweaty and his foot taps restlessly. Why did he decide to come here? Not even R could answer that question. In fact, he cannot be sure there was a conscious decision involved at all.

He presses the button for the buzzer and waits. And waits. And waits a little longer. He presses the button again. Still no answer. _Maybe he’s hiding out? Or on the run? Shit – what if he’s been arrested?_

Desperation pushing him over the boundary into madness, R raises his hand to the door one more time. He presses. After a moment, a voice comes on the line.

“Hello? Who is this?” Mrs DuBois asks through the static.

R clears his throat before speaking. “It’s… um, it’s me. I visit your neighbour quite a lot… always wearing sunglasses… I was wondering if you could let me in?”

There is only static on the line for a few seconds, before it cuts off entirely. The door bolt clicks open. _Wow, I can’t believe that worked_ _– she didn’t even ask any questions_.

R lets himself into the building and climbs the stairs at twice his normal speed. He is startled by what greets him on the third-floor landing, or rather _who_. The door to apartment 303 is open, and in the doorway stands a stoic Mrs DuBois. She is neither entering nor leaving, just… standing there. Waiting for him.

“Hi Mrs DuBois,” R begins awkwardly, not sure how to read the situation, “thanks for letting me up.”

“No trouble at all,” she replies evenly. She then follows that up with: “you don’t look very well.” _I mean… she’s not wrong._ “Although I suppose with everything happening these days, that is to be expected.”

“Everything… happening?”

Though Mrs DuBois is nowhere near smiling, this is the least frightening R has ever seen her. “I may be old, boy, but I see the news. You probably won’t be surprised to hear that he’s not in at the moment – hasn’t been for a few days now.” R feels his breath catch. _Shit._ At least the fact that she has not mentioned the police is somewhat reassuring.

“Do- do you know if he’s coming back?” No. He already knows the answer is no.

“No, son. I’m sorry.” Knowing the answer beforehand did not render it any less devastating. “But,” she continues, and R perks his head up, “he did give me this.” She reaches into her jacket pocket, extracting a small carefully-folded piece of paper. She extends it towards R.

“For you,” she says, “I guess he knew you’d be coming around.” R stares at her hand for a moment, not quite believing this turn of events.

“Thank you,” he says eventually, taking the paper.

“Mm hmm – now you do your part and find him. I meant what I said, you know: you’re good for him, even if he is blind to what he needs.” Before R can process those words, let alone formulate a reasonable response, Mrs DuBois has already wished him a good day and closed her door in his face.

With nothing else to say and nowhere else to go, R unfolds E’s little paper, his hands shaking. The note, in plain black ink and E’s loopy handwriting, reads: “The crossing of a favourite bloom and one less loved. Same number. Please do not feel compelled to come.” No ‘hello’, no sign-off – just… _that_.

R rereads that last sentence over and over again. _Does that sound like he wants me to go, or not? It’s so harsh, but then again, he did go through the effort of writing the message in the first place. Does he want me to find him?_ R almost laughs – as if the answer to that question has any bearing on whether he will do it or not.

The question now is, however, where exactly is E? ‘The crossing of a favourite bloom and one less loved’ – a riddle. E _was_ always keen on the secrecy… and a massive nerd. If this was under any other circumstances, R would have smiled. As it stands, however, he can only think about one thing: solving that riddle.

_This is lunacy_ , R thinks to himself as he knocks on room 302 of a seedy motel, _there could be a murderer staying here._ The curtains are all drawn, leaving not a sliver of the room visible from the outside. After a moment of tense anticipation, the door creaks open, stopping once it is wide enough for a person to enter, and yet no one is to be seen inside – they must be hiding behind the door. Throwing all caution to the wind, as he seems prone to doing when it comes to E, R steps into the room.

Once R has taken a few steps inside, the door shuts quietly behind him. He turns around.

Almost unbelievably, there stands E, in all his old-t-shirt-and-sweatpants glory. He appears to be fresh from a shower, his long hair damp and loose, leaving dark patches on the fabric of his shirt. Still, E pulls off the look in a more dignified manner than anyone else R has ever known. Having only seen him on a screen for so long, it seems R had forgotten the sharp potency of the person himself; it is like finally seeing the world in colour, when one did not even realise they were colour-blind in the first place. Yet, after the initial shock, the heavy awkwardness in the air becomes all too palpable.

E purses his lips and casts his gaze downwards almost sheepishly. “You solved my riddle,” he states the obvious.

“No, I searched every room in every motel in the city until I found you – yeah, I solved the riddle.” R blathers yet again, and E’s lips quirk up in an almost-smile. “’Bloom’… Edith… I figured that out easily enough, but… how did you know irises were my favourite flower?”

“Han might have told me,” E answers, “a few weeks ago, in fact. A good choice – they symbolise wisdom and hope, or so I’m told.”

While R now stands smack in the middle of the room, E lingers by the door, as if reluctant to take up any more space or approach any closer. It is a such a rare unease for him.

“Look,” R says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as he feels his heartbeat begin to pick up speed, “I don’t know why I decided to find you. Honestly, I don’t know if I… _decided_ at all. Sorry, I… I don’t know why I’m here.”

“No, no,” E is quick to say, “please don’t apologise. I- I’m glad you decided to come, whatever the reason. The way I left things that day, the things I said… I really must apologise. I never meant to… undermine your character or belittle you, and I _am_ sorry.” It appears genuinely difficult for him to admit these things, and he stumbles more than R has ever witnessed before. “I just… I only acted that way because – oh God, I’m really quite terrible at this, aren’t I? – _you were right_. I was a hypocrite, and I do… care about what happens to you. I can’t help but feel responsible for your safety; after all, I am the one continuously dragging you into all of this… I’m sorry.”

R does not know what to say. He never thought he would actually hear that admission from E’s own mouth and his head is starting to spin. But it appears that E is not yet finished. “I suppose I was letting my own… _feelings_ get in the way, after all; I had no right to accuse you of the same. You have been nothing but dedicated to the cause since you joined and… we couldn’t have gotten this far without you.”

R shakes his head slowly, only half to clear away the dizziness. “No,” he says, “the thing is… you were right. I… Let’s be real, I never really cared that much about the D.P.S.I.; that wasn’t why I decided to help you.”

E’s brows rise just the tiniest fraction in surprise as R flounders about searching for the right words. “R…” he says. It almost sounds like a warning.

_He’s going to think I’m insane, but who cares? Fuck it._ “That day when you asked me to join, I was pretty apprehensive. To be honest, I was gonna say no. But the thing is… the night before, I had this… dream. But it wasn’t like a normal dream – it felt so real. Actually, I’ve had lots of them now, but that’s not the point. The point is, _you_ were there. In the dream. I mean, it wasn’t _you_ , but it _was_ you somehow. And… you were starting this revolution, and there was this other guy there who… _really_ didn’t want you to die. And that guy was _me_. But then no one helped you, and he – I mean, _me_ – got drunk and… basically, you died. We both did. Because the people didn’t rise…”

E, to give him credit where it is due, is not laughing. In fact, that would appear to be the farthest expression from his face at the moment. Instead, he appears strangely… terrified. _To be fair, that’s a reasonable response when your friend claims to have had a premonition dream about you dying._ Either way, he says nothing.

“Oh my God,” R suddenly laments, taking a couple of steps backwards until he hits the bed and sits himself down. “I’m insane, I- I’m actually crazy…. But it felt so real! The guns and the blood, and… I knew I had to help you… this time.” He shuts his eyes and holds his head in his hands. He speaks blindly: “I’m sorry – I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have come…”

Beside him, R feels the mattress dip as E sits down. He feels a warm hand coming to rest on his trembling shoulder. “No, there is nothing wrong with you,” he says. _He’s lying – of course he is. But then again, what other reaction can there be to such a scene?_

R shakes his head erratically, still not looking up. “No, no… you don’t have to say that. I know I sound crazy. I probably _am_ … Han’s been suggesting therapy for a while now; maybe I should listen to them…”

“No,” E says again, firmer this time, “you’re not understanding me. There is _nothing_ wrong with you… Grantaire.”

R’s breath catches in his throat. He freezes, and E’s hand drops from his shoulder. “What did you say?”

“Grantaire,” E repeats, though R does not believe it any more the second time around, “you’re not losing your mind. And if you are, then so am I.”

R finally lowers his hands, and turns to look at the face beside him. In the second that it takes for his eyes to focus, it seems like that glowing blurry form could have been anyone – a righteous revolutionary, a zealous terrorist, a charming physician – but the fuzzy lines eventually come together to form one person: E. E, whose expression is all at once grave and open, petrified yet inviting. He seems to have no need of blinking.

“You too?” It is barely above a whisper.

E speaks steadily, but almost equally as quiet: “I’ve been having these… dreams for years now. After Elia died, I wanted to stop all my operations, give up, and that’s when they began for me. _You_ were always present, although I suppose I didn’t know that at the time, but sometimes… I saw _her_. Elia… If you’re saying you dreamt of Paris the night before we met, then… forgive me, but I can’t help but feel like these _dreams_ might be signs.”

R lets out a weak chuckle. “Wow,” he says breathlessly, “now you’re starting to sound like a conspiracy theorist. Maybe I’m not the crazy one after all.”

“Maybe so, but I happen to be feeling particularly mystical today.” The ghost of a smile reaches E’s face, before it turns serious once again. His eyebrows pull together, dragging lines across that otherwise smooth and unreadable face. “Although, if you have seen the dreams too, then you must understand… given my _track record_ , this is highly unlikely to end well. For me, definitely, and for you, if you choose to follow me.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me again?” It is meant to be a joke, but it comes off sounding more sad than anything else.

E does not laugh. “No,” he says, “I just want to make sure that you understand what decision you’re making here.”

“I do,” R speaks with surprising confidence, “and all I know is that I can’t leave you.” E’s intense blue eyes appear shinier than before, reflecting the soft orange light of the bedside lamp, and R almost believes that he might actually cry. “I mean, from what I’ve seen, you’re pretty doomed without me.”

E leaves an uncharacteristically long pause before finally replying: “Are you certain? Because I do plan on continuing the work we’ve begun. Though the general public may be far from enchanted, in the past week I’ve had a number of former government employees – and current ones – step forward to contact me. Others want change too; they’re willing to take the risk, and so am I.” E watches R resolutely, as if challenging him to back down, to leave.

“Me too,” R asserts without hesitation.

“You might have to break a couple more laws, go into hiding.”

“I don’t mind,” R says.

“I might have to flee the country, seek asylum.”

“I never really liked this country anyway.”

Against all odds, R is not anxious now – his heart is calm and his breathing steady. Perhaps against his better judgment, he knows where he belongs and what he must do.

E still appears apprehensive, troubled; his face is downcast and his hands are folded in his lap. R has seen so many versions of this face – young and old, angry and forlorn, loving and cold. But there is one constant: he is beautiful, even divinely so. And it is not down to the structure of his bones or the styling of his hair; rather it is by virtue of some inherent justice that R wishes so desperately to decode, to finally understand.

As E remains uncertain, R reaches over and takes his hand.

He smiles, and asks: “So, what are we planning?”

 

*        *        *

 

_Central Europe, c. 9000 B.C._

She found Blue-Eyes in the woods. They were both only little at the time – Curly herself had seen only seven snows and the other was even littler. Scratched and dirty and covered with leaves, Curly could make out only those blue eyes, and so she was named. She had spoken strangely then, a peculiar tongue full of unfamiliar words, but that had not stopped Curly from bringing her new friend home.

As the years pass, they become almost like sisters – they play together, bathe together, pick fruits together. Blue-Eyes grows mischievous, or maybe she was always so? She always has ideas for games or tricks to play on the others, and she can be _very_ convincing. “Troublemakers,” everyone says. But Blue-Eyes is not lazy or cruel – she does her part for the tribe. Still, they call her ‘outsider’, they call her ‘alien’, and she is the first to be blamed for any perceived wrongdoing. Curly, for her part, always defends her. “She is one of us,” she insists.

The tribe gathers by the fire one morning, chilly air signalling the coming arrival of Curly’s thirteenth winter. Leader – his name is Yellow-Leaf but the children are not to call him that – announces: “Winter is coming, and it will be the worst that any of us have ever known. We must all do our part to collect enough provisions to last until spring. Today, the men will leave for a final hunt as the women and children gather fruits on the slope.”

As everyone begins to ready for their particular jobs, Blue-Eyes speaks up: “Leader, the slopes are barren. Our time is better spent by the river.”

Leader turns back wearily, raising an eyebrow in disdain. “And how do you come to know this information, _child_?”

Blue-Eyes stands taller, not willing to let the man intimidate her. “I have explored both the slopes and the river, _Leader_.”

“Exploring is not your job, little girl,” Leader says coldly, “I have scouted the slopes and found that they are our best option. Now stop wasting our precious time and join the others.” He gestures to where the other women and children have ignored Blue-Eyes’ objections and are already starting on their way towards the mountain.

Leader makes to turn away, but Blue-Eyes stands firm. “If even our best option is barren, perhaps we should move. The winters are not so harsh in the south, where I came from-”

Leader’s boorish laugh cuts her off. “Migrate south? Do you think me so foolish as to listen to _you_ , outsider, and lead my own people into a trap?” His expression turns grave all at once. “We took you in; you could be gone as quickly as you came. Now get to work.”

Blue-Eyes clenches her jaw as Leader marches away. “Come on,” Curly says, taking her by the hand and making to follow the women in the direction of the slopes, “don’t make any more trouble; his threats are not empty.”

But Blue-Eyes turns her angry gaze onto her friend. “But I _know_ I am right. So do you – we saw the slopes together, there is nothing there!” Curly only sighs. She knows she is right. Blue-Eyes’ expression turns suspicious. “Where do you suppose Leader goes when we are out picking berries? He does not hunt with the men, that is sure. Do you think he simply lazes about the cave, or is it something more sinister?”

This gives Curly pause. “You’re right; I never thought about it before. Maybe this is when he does his scouting,” she suggests, but it sounds implausible even to herself. Blue-Eyes does not reply further, only purses her lips as though deep in thought as they make their way up the hillside.

That night, Curly is woken from slumber by an insistent tug on her arm. In the darkness of the cave, where the only light source is the fire which has long since turned to embers, she can see those familiar blue eyes only inches from her own face. Curly prepares to ask questions, but Blue-Eyes clamps a hand over her mouth.

“Stay quiet,” she whispers, so quietly that Curly almost cannot hear, “follow me.”

Once her mouth is free, Curly asks in an equally hushed tone: “What are we doing?” She is accustomed to Blue-Eyes’ schemes, but rarely do they happen in this depth of night.

“Finding out,” she answers as they move about with careful footsteps, “what Leader is hiding.” Although mortified at the possible outcome of this latest adventure, Curly does not even think of abandoning her friend.

The two girls retreat farther into the cave, approaching the place where Leader sleeps. Curly is apprehensive, keeping her distance from the slumbering man, but Blue-Eyes soldiers on, clambering over the rocks behind him. As Curly wrestles with whether or not to follow, her friend’s vague figure suddenly stills. There is a barely perceptible rustling sound of some sort, before Blue-Eyes makes her return.

“Look,” she whispers once she is beside Curly. She presents her hands – in them, an assortment of dried fruits and nuts. Curly almost gasps audibly. “I do not believe it…” But even as she says this, she knows the evidence is unmistakable.

“He plans to feed himself while we starve.” In the blackness, Curly sees only the manic glint of the embers off her friend’s eyes, and she struggles to think of a response. But at that instant, Leader stirs in his sleep, startling them both, and they scurry back to the corner of the cave from which they came.

The following morning, the tribe gathers as usual around the firepit. Leader once again directs the others towards the mountainside to forage, and they accept this wordlessly. Even Blue-Eyes, despite glaring at Leader throughout his speech, turns obediently to go. Curly can only guess at what she is planning.

“Blue-Eyes,” Leader calls out, and she stalls. “Please stay for a moment. There is something I wish to discuss.” Although Blue-Eyes eyes him suspiciously, there is nothing to be done, so she remains behind as Curly reluctantly follows the women up the slope.

When they have been working at their futile harvest for a while and Blue-Eyes has still not appeared, Curly can no longer hold back her worries. “Hey,” she voices, “don’t you find it strange that Leader has kept Blue-Eyes behind?”

“So what?” First-Snow replies without looking, “he’s probably talking some respect into her – that little troublemaker is always talking back to him.”

Curly holds back an angry defence, instead continuing: “Last night, she found Leader’s secret stash of food – he has bags of it hidden away while we work here fruitlessly. He must be trying to silence her.”

“Did you see this bag for yourself?” Spring-Rain retorts, “she is probably lying to you. She is trying to divide us – you know you cannot trust her.”

The urge to begin an argument is strong, but Curly thinks of Blue-Eyes and how she remains alone with Leader even as they speak, and instead leaves in a huff. She hurries back down the mountainside along the now well-used path.

There is no sign of either Leader or her friend at the mouth of the cave, so Curly takes a deep breath before venturing inwards.

“You!” Leader’s voice echoes off the cave walls. Her eyes finally adjust to the semi-darkness, and she is able to see the man just a few paces ahead, looming over the crouching form of little Blue-Eyes. She is wrapped around herself as if to be as small as possible, and fresh bruises are visible where her skin is bare. All the while she glares furiously at the man in front of her, but this turns to a look of surprise when she notices Curly’s approach.

“You cannot kill her!” Curly cries. It is half a plea. “Everyone will suspect you, then.”

He merely tilts his head in amusement. “Are you sure? If it looks to be an accident, who do you think they will believe: a foolish little girl, or their wise leader? And besides, you owe this outsider no loyalty – she has only been trouble since we took her in.”

Curly looks back and forth between the two people in front of her. Blue-Eyes watches her evenly, but something in her brow reveals her inner distress; Leader holds only a self-satisfied smirk. Curly’s thinking brain seems to have stalled, so she instead acts entirely out of instinct, leaping upon the man in a desperate action to keep him from hurting her friend any further.

For a few moments that feel both immediate and endless, Curly thrashes erratically, kicking and scratching and biting indiscriminately. But once the shock has worn off, Leader is the stronger contender by far, and soon has her pinned against the unyielding stone of the cave. “Stupid little girl!” he howls, “I gave you the chance to walk away!”

He holds his hands at her throat now; it makes Curly want to cough, but nothing can come either out or in. She twists around desperately in his grip as stars appear across her field of vision.

“Yellow-Leaf!” she hears Blue-Eyes yell, then-

_CRACK._

Leader’s grip on her neck loosens almost immediately, and Curly gasps for air. After a moment of stillness, the man collapses heavily on top of her – a dead weight. Curly wiggles her way out from under him. Blue-Eyes stands over the body, splattered crimson with a large rock grasped tightly in her hands. She drops it with a loud bang that echoes ominously through the cave.

It is only after some time that Curly notices the several women and children standing at the cave’s entrance, looking on in shock. When she realises where Curly’s gaze is pointed, Blue-Eyes turns to face them too.

Several members of the group look as though they may speak, but none do. Blue-Eyes turns, retreating back into the cavern; she goes to the spot claimed by their former Leader, retrieving two large sacks from a nook. She returns to Curly’s side and drops the bags at her feet; out of one rolls a mixture of fruits and nuts, from the other a collection of edible roots.

Blue-Eyes raises an eyebrow, daring anyone to question her. Before they react, she is already marching for the exit; the tribe parts for her like a river for a mountain, and she disappears into the glare of the morning sun. Curly hesitates for an instant, then follows.


End file.
